


Too Hot to Handle

by yespolkadot_kitty



Category: Jurassic World (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-24 03:47:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 32,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9698492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yespolkadot_kitty/pseuds/yespolkadot_kitty
Summary: AU. Claire runs a country estate, juggling her ailing father and an antagonist deputy. When Owen arrives as the new hire, things get even more complicated.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Long time lurker, first time poster in the JW/Claire & Owen tags.
> 
> Thank you for reading! All errors entirely my own.

"How dare you. How _dare_ you.” Her stomach churning with anger and frustration, Claire Dearing bit the words out as she came to stand at the entrance to the stables of her family estate, prepared to face down the deputy manager, Victor Hoskins.

He would be the ex-deputy manager in a heartbeat if she could have her way.

“Good morning to you, too.” He didn't look particularly surprised to see her.

She bristled even further. “Well? How dare you hire someone without clearing it with me first. We have a budget to think of, a rota – and as for the interviews, I hear you organised them to take place during my annual leave.” She swallowed, her tongue feeling thick in her own mouth. “How very clever of you.”

Victor spread his hands in an irritating what can you do gesture. “Your father authorised it.”

“My father is-” she bit the words back, her gut boiling, stomach clenching. The gentle summer breeze that wove past her did nothing to quell the fire that infused every iota of her body. She and Victor stared at each other, Victor all but silently goading her to say it.

_ Say it. Say he's not fit for purpose any more. _

But she didn't have the heart to admit it, not out loud, especially not to Victor, and he was counting on that weakness.

“And,” Victor added softly, “We didn't want you to sit in on the interviews, considering what happened last time.”

How dare he bring that up. But Claire said nothing. He'd dared everything else, so why was she surprised at a little backstabbing?

Yes, she had – eventually – married their previous stable manager, Seb. But did Victor and his ilk really think that she'd hired him for his looks? Did they think so little of her?

Evidently.

“Seb's exit left us needing another manager, and quickly I decided to take that load off your shoulders,” Victor said into the silence. “You've got too much on your plate.”

She heard the shift in his tone and knew he was trying to cajole her. It wouldn't work.

She folded her arms across her chest. The summer was vicious this year and even at ten am, the sun pounded down, rendering her smart grey business dress unsuitable.

The matching heels were unsuitable too, but as Operations Manager of her family estate, business attire made her feel powerful.

And if she needed to dress that way to feel powerful around here, then it was because of insidious little snakes like Victor Hoskins, who wormed their way into her father's fragile, confused heart. Who convinced her normally sweet, even-tempered dad that a man would make a better Ops Manager than a woman. Than Harry Dearing's own daughter, for crying out loud.

They'd started to call meetings without her. Claire got a lot of the information from her invaluable assistant, Zara, but that was far from the point. Victor was pushing her out. Claire got _that_ memo loud and clear.

And now it was being drummed into her even louder by this turn of events – hiring a replacement for Seb without even so much as a "just to let you know" post-it note on her computer.

“And when did you intend to tell me about this?” she seethed. “Or did you always intend for my father to blurt it out over the breakfast table?”

She had almost bobbled her grandmother's prized heirloom teapot when her father had casually asked her if she was looking forward to meeting the new stable manager, and that he hoped she intended to greet him herself.

Her teacup was practically let spinning in its saucer as she'd shot up from the table to give Victor a piece of her mind.

“Relax. I was going to send you a diary marker.”

“Really. A diary marker. You couldn't have come and stabbed a knife in my back in person.”

He looked away, and in that moment Claire knew that all her suspicions about him were correct. He'd deliberately been cutting her out of things. He wanted to usurp her, completely and totally.

Of course, it did not help that her father, sweet as he was, had never totally covered up his disappointment about her being born a girl instead of the boy he wanted.

Victor didn't offer anything further, and Claire decided to pick her battles. She'd take this to the board at the next meeting and let them decide Victor's fate. She didn't need to prove herself to him – he was her deputy. Not her boss.

“When is this new manager arriving, then?” she asked, trying to maintain her composure. It would be so easy to grab one of the shovels and smack him in the face with it.

Claire told herself she was buying good karma by resisting.

The sound of a car off in the distance made her turn, just as Victor replied, “Round about now, I should think.”

God, how she wanted to hit him. He'd completely planned for her not to be here.

But he hadn’t planned on her father spilling the beans. For once, she was grateful for his condition.

Well, she wasn't leaving now. He'd have to shoot her first.

The car, with its mysterious cargo, was some way away, so she soothed herself by crossing into the barn to visit the horses. It was too early for riding lessons, so the four horses they kept were all in their stalls.

The stables of the family estate was something of a side business, but a lucrative one. Seb and his staff had run riding lessons for adults, children, and corporate team away days. People holidaying in Brynarian's two rentable cottages could often be persuaded to book a riding lesson or two. The ponies they kept were gentle and steady, providing fantastic mounts for riders who just wanted a taster day out.

They hadn't expanded to boarding yet, but it was something Claire had her eye on for the future. They could easily expand the barn to hold two or even three more horses.

She had a soft spot for Seren, the exmoor pony. The mare was biddable and sweet, and always the mount of choice for any young children. She was playful too, and would do pretty much anything for a slice of apple or a nice juicy carrot, or very ocassionally, a lump of sugar.

Claire had been known to come down to the stables after hours, and just sit in Seren's stall with her, talking through the day. Some of the stablehands ribbed her for it, but Claire felt Seren just understood, in a way that no one else did.

She held her hand out to the horse and Seren sniffed it, then bowed her neck. As always, Claire's heart clutched. A horse lowering its neck was the ultimate sign of trust. It had taken a year for Seren to fully trust her, but the intense sweetness of it never failed to have Claire totally entranced.

Whispering nonsense to the horse, she stroked Seren's mane, noting that she had been well groomed – not a spot of dirt hid in the silky strands. Sometimes she came to groom the ponies herself, but that was for pleasure. It helped her wind down at the end of a long day, filled with spreadsheets and headaches. For the most part, grooming was done by the stable manager or the stablehands.

“He's here.”

Victor's voice shook her from her reverie. She stroked her fingers down Seren's cheek, and the pony gave a delighted little whinny in response.

If only people were horses, Claire thought sadly. She'd like a lot of them a lot better.

Except Victor. She had a feeling he'd be a huge pain in the ass whatever species she turned him into.

At least if he was a horse she wouldn't have to listen to him run his mouth.

She crossed out of the barn just as the landrover pulled up next to her own car. It was more beaten up than she'd expected – rough around the edges.

Then again, she'd expected Seb, who always kept his own four wheel drive clean enough to eat off. It was all about appearances with Seb, always.

She shook the thought away. New manager. Blank slate.

The door opened, and she saw that the car matched the owner.

He was big. Tall, broad shoulders. Long legs. He got out of the car and left the door open, walking towards them in black boots. Dark blue jeans encased his legs, and she followed them up to a sandstone chambray shirt. Those broad shoulders held her gaze for several seconds before she reached his face. Sharp cheekbones. He'd broken his nose once, probably a long time ago, and the kink gave his face some character. His honey-coloured hair curled a little over his forehead, giving him a charming, rough-and-tumble look.

But it was his eyes that really held her attention. As the stranger came closer, she saw the quiet intensity in them. His irises were the green of the lake to the east of the estate, shot through with just a touch of gold.

As he approached, his mouth quirked up in a cocky sort of smirk. She wondered if the outside matched the inside, and got her answer when the newcomer and Victor silently sized each other up, facing off.

Oh God. Another alpha to add to the mix. Just what she needed.

_Not_.

Victor finally offered his hand. “Pleased to meet you. Victor Hoskins – Deputy Manager.”

Claire didn't miss the way he emphasized manager and almost skipped over the word deputy. She catalogued it in her memory. Who knew what he'd have said if she hadn't stormed down there.

The new hire took Victor's hand. “Pleasure. Owen Grady.”

He was American. She had not expected that. Nor had she expected that voice – like honey and bourbon on ice, all southern smoothness with the slightest hint of a sharp edge. She felt his gaze cut over to her, and met it.

The heat she felt from his gaze had nothing to do with the way the sun beat down from the cloudless blue sky. He took a step towards her, little half-smile still in place. She watched his muscles move as he walked, the chambray just a smidge too tight. He looked as if he spent much of his time outdoors, and she couldn't imagine him in a gym, running to bad pop music under air conditioning. No, he'd probably earned those muscles the old fashioned way.

She suddenly pictured him shirtless, sweaty, labouring hard under the shiny orb of the sun. All the moisture evaporated from her mouth.

She gathered it together just in time to offer her hand. “Claire Dearing– Operations Manager.”

“Ma'am.” He drew the syllable out, his eyes on her face, and something clutched low in her belly.

She was having a serious case of good, old fashioned lust, and it was burning right through her. She fervently wished for a mirror and hoped that her face wasn't the colour of freshly boiled lobster.

Owen's green gaze searched hers. She estimated that he was wondering why she hadn't been at the interviews. He released her hand. Her fingers tingled where his big hand had touched hers. His was calloused – used to working outside. While she'd done her fair share of shovelling hay and grooming, she knew her hands were pale and soft, and a feeling of self-consciousness tightened her stomach.

“Want to see our stables, then?” Victor asked. “You didn't have much time to look around on interview day.”

Claire interrupted. Dammit if she'd let Victor take over. He'd insinuated himself into enough of her working life. “It's okay. Victor. I've got this. If you could settle the guests into cottage three, I'd really appreciate it.”

She injected just enough steel into her tone to tell Victor that this was not a negotiation.

He stood his ground for a moment. Claire knew that their new hire was essentially witnessing a non-verbal pissing contest, but if she didn't assert her authority now, then before she knew it, Owen would be signing things off with Victor.

Discussing new ideas and new riding routes with Victor, not her.

She couldn't allow that to happen. Would not. Over her dead body.

“No problem.” Victor's reply was light, but she didn't miss the thunder on his face. There would be retribution later. She would deal with it as and when. “Catch you later, Owen.”

Owen nodded as Victor got into his own truck and drove away. She was surprised he didn't rev the engine menacingly.

As the scent of exhaust faded, she turned to Owen.

He radiated quiet intensity. Confidence.

A need to explain why she hadn't been at his interview burned her tongue, but she quelled it. Over-explaining would make her look incompetent. She would read his paperwork for herself later. “Would you like to see the stables first, or your new lodgings?”

“Let's take the lodgings. Be good to freshen up and dump my stuff. It's been a long trip.”

“Sure. It's not far – down a five minute drive.”

Owen crossed back to his vehicle and held open the passenger door. “Jump in. You can direct me.”

Claire hesitated, unsure of being in an enclosed space with him. He was so – large. She quickly recovered. How ridiculous. It was a five minute ride.

She got in and buckled her seatbelt, directing him onto the small road that led away from the stables, and down to a two bedroomed cottage. As he drove, she gazed out of the window to the huge Welsh mountains that gave Brynarian such a stunning, calming background. If she lived to be a hundred, she'd never tire of waking up to the gentle giants in the distance, sometimes shrouded in fog.

Today they were as clear as a bell, rolling above the valley, sleeping beasts that often protected the estate from the worst of the Welsh weather.

“Nice place you've got here.”

“We like it.”

“Family owned, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

His hands turned the wheel confidently. Everything about him seemed to exude strength. She stared at his hands for a moment, wondering how they'd feel against her skin.

She took a deep breath, trying to shake off hot lust more suitable for a seventeen year old. Annoyed, she focused on the road, irritated with herself, and irritated with him for stirring something inside her, something she didn't think still existed.

Not that it mattered. Owen had given her absoutely zero sign that he felt the same way. And why would he? Not only had they just met, but he had just witnessed her and her deputy manager posturing in a serious non-verbal case of one upmanship. Lord knew what he must think of her, and of his new post, at this moment in time.

“Turn here.”

He did, and the road became a dirt track that led to a gravel driveway. The cottage stood at the end, quiet, welcoming. Claire smiled when she saw that a basket with food, wine and flowers had been set out by the doorway. At least Victor had seen to that. Welcome baskets were something guests enjoyed, but policy was to give them to new hires, too. Making nice never hurt anyone.

He stopped the car, and they both got out, looking up at the cottage. Ivy grew around the front. Claire found it charming. - it gave the little house character. It had been sympathetically refurbished throughout, keeping the low wooden beams typical of a house of its age. She glanced at Owen and knew he would dwarf every room.

“Want to see inside?”

“You bet.”

She took the ring of keys from her pocket and thumbed through it, finding the brass key from the set. She slipped it off and drew a Brynarian branded lanyard from her other pocket, attaching it to the key. “It's yours.”

He studied the lanyard. “Are you always this organised?”

She hid a smile of relief. “I'm the Ops Manager. I knew you were coming.” She hadn't, but she always kept her keys on her. It was pure luck that she'd had the lanyard in her pocket. She silently thanked whichever deity had been listening.

Owen took two duffle bags from the back of the four wheel drive and hefted them, one on each shoulder.

Claire glanced in the boot. “That's it? That's all your stuff?”

“Sure. Cottage comes furnished, right?”

“Of course.”

“Well, then.” He strode towards the cottage as if it was all sorted – as if she shouldn't be surprised that he carried his entire life around in two large bags and a car.

She felt a quick pang of sympathy, and then brushed it aside. She knew literally nothing about him, and she wasn't usually the type to go around making knee-jerk assumptions.

Well. She eyed his broad back, the way it tapered down. The way his hips moved just slightly when he walked. Just enough to make her think about sex.

She had assumed that he would be talented at sweaty, no-holds-barred, sex. That he would take utter control of her. And that she, the control freak, would let him.

It scared her. So she ordered herself stop thinking about it.

Too bad she didn't always manage to obey her own orders.

He slid the key into the lock and it opened with a soft click.

Inside, the cottage was bright from the summer sun. The walls had been knocked through to leave the lounge and kitchen one big, airy space. Lots of natural light.

Claire picked up the guest basket. Her heels clicked on the old oak floor as she took the basket to the small kitchen area, set it down on the granite worktop.

She'd been right about Owen. The long wooden beams only just cleared the top of his head. He'd lucked out with this cottage. The others on Brynarian wouldn't have accommodated a man of just over six feet.

“This is great.” He stood in the centre of the lounge, surveying it. His presence filled the space. He was impossible to ignore.

She shivered. She had to go. Despite herself, she began to regret telling Victor to get lost.

“We had it sympathetically restored,” she told him, trailing her hand along the beautifully integrated electric hob. “When Dad started the stables as another income generator a few years ago, it made sense for the stable manager to live on site.”

Dumping his bags, Owen moved to stand by the big window in the lounge. It overlooked the well-kept but sparse garden.  An old love seat hung from a very old oak tree, the wood discoloured from years of rain.

Claire had often imagined sitting in that loveseat at dusk, whilst fireflies lit up the night and crickets chirped, but Seb had never invited her down here.

Probably for the best. Now she didn't feel weird standing here, looking at the back of the new hire, wondering what he was like. At the cogs inside that ran his emotions, locked up in that handsome exterior.

Too bad she'd never have the key to that particular lock.

 

He turned from the window. “I've got big shoes to fill, then?”

She swallowed, thinking of Seb. Thinking of their first kiss, their last argument. “No reason why you should think that.”

He studied her, and in that moment, Claire was terrified that those clear, stern green eyes saw everything. Her fear of the future. Her sadness about the past. And the clutch of pure desire in her belly when she looked at the sloping v of his shirt, and the whorls of chest hair it revealed.

Looking away, she returned her attention to the house. “Manuals for the cooker, washing machine, and drier are in this drawer here. That door leads to a downstairs toilet. This door goes out to the garden. I expect you to cut the grass when it gets unreasonable. The mower is in the shed.”

“Noted.”

“Upstairs?”

Again his gaze pinned hers. “Yeah.”

She led him up the stairs, feeling him behind her, all muscle and heat. The stairs were small, and even with him a few steps behind her, she felt crowded, boxed in. Not in control.

“There are two bedrooms and a main bathroom with bath and shower.” She stood in the hall and let him look around. The hallway was tight, and even though only his arm brushed her, the contact felt super-charged.

She told herself it was all in her head.

After a few moments, he appeared in the hallway again.

“Any questions?”

“Nope. Mind giving me a few minutes to wash up? Then we can go back to the stables. I want to meet the horses.”

“Of course.”

He moved into the bathroom and she made her way down the stairs. Before he shut the bathroom door, she caught a glimpse of him pulling the chambray shirt over his head. Even though it was so fleeting, the sight of the smooth, tan skin of his back made her mouth water.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Owen assesses his new situation.

Owen didn't need anyone to tell him that he had stepped into a very strange dynamic. The Deputy who wanted to be in charge – and would be if Claire let herself slip.

And Claire was an enigma all of her own. Cool, controlled. He had barely seen her express any emotion. Every step she took seemed to be pre-planned.

She was the Ops Manager, and yet she hadn't been at his interviews? Something wasn't right there. Again, anyone could see that. She had all but faced off against Victor in the stables earlier. The other man had backed down, but he'd clearly bristled at a woman being in charge.

Owen could tell that a storm was brewing. The thunderclouds were getting closer.

He turned the water on and washed up as best he could with the fresh cake of soap and the soft flannel on top of a neatly tied towel bale by the bath. Everything had been set out prettily, just so. He would bet that Claire had had a hand in that, too.

He hadn't missed the way her gaze had lingered on him.

The feeling was mutual. The fall of her russet red hair, swinging to her shoulders, a waterfall of silk, caught the sunlight. Her pale green eyes were too big for her face, giving her a doe-like look, but Owen already knew better than to believe that. She had a core of steel, if the searing look she had given Victor was an indication of her character.

He was rarely wrong about people. It was something he prided himself on.

Drying his face and neck, he tossed the chambray shirt into the laundry basket and strode out of the room. It occurred to him that he'd left his bags, with their change of clothes, in the lounge. Where Claire waited.

But what the hell. She was a grown woman. She'd seen a man's chest before.

When he went down, she wasn't there.

He shrugged into a white t-shirt, and when he straightened, he glimpsed her through the big lounge window. She sat on the love seat, talking on her mobile phone. Her brow creased, and he saw the stress that contorted her features. His instinct was to join her, but he didn't. He barely knew her – infact, he didn't know her. At all. Why would he go and comfort her? And why would she let him?

Instead, he busied himself unpacking his things and storing them in the correct places. He'd just arrived back downstairs when she let herself into the back door.

“Sorry about that. Mini crisis in the breakfast room.”

“Man, I hate it when my favourite kind of jam runs out halfway through breakfast,” he deadpanned.

A smile ghosted around her lips. “You have no idea. Are you ready?”

“Sure.”

They drove back in companionable silence. Owen liked that she didn't feel the need to talk to fill the void. The scenery rolled past. He liked it. The ocean of green, bisected by low stone walls. In the distance, a dog barked.

The stables were a hum of activity when they returned. Claire greeted the young stablehands by name and they seemed genuinely pleased to see her. “We'll introduce you at the All Hands meeting tomorrow morning,” she told him as the stablehands scurried off. “They've got to work out the rotas for the riding lessons today.”

“How many horses do you have?”

“Four.” She led him into the converted barn. The horses' heads swivelled at the sound of her footsteps. “All are in work daily, or nearly daily, but we rarely work them for full days in the mid summer heat.”

“Stalls cleaned out daily, hay refreshed?”

“Of course.”

He glanced at her. He’d deliberately asked the question to try and provoke some sort of emotion – of course he knew an estate like this would care for their horses well. But not even a hint of annoyance flickered across her face.

“How many stablehands do you have?”

“Three. They work on a rota. We have two riding instructors, also part time. They’re very familiar with the horses. I take it you have riding experience?” The slightest tic jerked in her cheek, and Owen wondered if she was annoyed – with him? With the fact she hadn’t been in his interview?

If she thought he wasn’t up to the challenge, she was wrong. “I could ride almost before I could walk. They start us southern boys early.”

He thought he heard her mutter “I just bet they do,” but the horses snuffled in the background, and he couldn’t be sure.

Her heels – they must hurt like hell, they were little more than cocktail stick supports – crunched on the gravel as she approached one of the horses, a mare with big beautiful eyes. “This is Seren.” She cupped the mare’s cheek and it nuzzled her playfully. These two definitely had an ongoing relationship. “She’s our Exmoor pony. Good with kids-”

“And disabled riders,” he finished.

Claire looked up at him in surprise.

“What? What do you think I’m doing here? Give me some credit.”

“Sorry.” Not looking at him, she continued to stroke the mare’s cheek. “She’s eight.”

He studied them for a moment. Woman and pony made a very appealing picture. Claire had softened, too – gone was the all-business manager who strode around at a fast clip, facing off with her deputies. The Claire he saw now was soft as the clouds drifting over the sky ahead, soft as melted sugar.

And as sweet, he’d bet. He’d like to test her, to put that fine-tuned control to the test. To push her buttons.

To have her push his.

“She’s also your favourite.”

She lowered her brows. “Trust you to figure that out in three seconds.” She huffed. “I clearly don’t hide it well.”

“Shouldn't feel you have to.” Owen came to stand slightly to the left of the pony, offering his hand, palm up, fingers flat, for a sniff. Seren didn’t disappoint, treating herself to a very thorough exploration of every inch of his palm, snuffling and breathing in. When she was satisfied she pulled away slightly, and Owen pressed his palm to her nose, gently stroking.

Claire snorted. “She’s practically purring. For a horse.”

Owen glanced at her. “I might have had experience with horses before.” When she said nothing, he decided to prod her again. Maybe it was for sport, but – fuck it. “Okay. Just say it.”

“Say what?”

“You don’t trust me. With your horses.”

She shifted uneasily on her feet. He couldn’t tell whether it was due to her high heels or her discomfort with him. “My feelings have nothing to do with your appointment.”

“Yeah, and that’s the problem. You’re fucking pissed.”

Anger flashed over her face. “We just met, Mr Grady. We are not having this conversation.”

“Call me Owen.”

“I won’t be calling you anything if you carry on in this vein. Sarah,” she called, and one of the stablehands, a girl of about eighteen with a long, blonde ponytail, rushed up. “Will you finish showing Mr Grady around the stables, introduce him to Aladdin, Betsy and Marco? He’s our new stable manager.”

“Of course, Claire.” The girl peeked up at him. “Pleased to meet you.”

Claire opened her mouth to speak, but her phone began to buzz insistently and she palmed it from her pocket. “Thanks, Sarah. I’ll see you later, Mr Grady. Enjoy settling in.”

Owen gave her a wave as she departed, phone to her ear. She had her excuses, but he couldn’t help feeling that she was running away. Ducking out of the fight.

She piqued his interest in every possible way.

Let the games begin.

  
****  
  
  


 

 

Claire postponed her conference call with an entertainment company wanting to hold an open-air concert on part of the estate. She needed more time to look into their credentials and their past events – time she would have had this morning, if not for her impromptu meet and greet with the new stable manager.

_Owen_. She swallowed back a pang of lust. She had to get over whatever this was. After all, she couldn't avoid him forever. Or for very long at all, actually – the All Hands meeting was set for tomorrow.

But right now, she had to deal with her father. And there was absolutely no getting around that.

She found him in his study on the first floor of the grand old house. The room boasted a big window overlooking the lake. Claire remembered many happy hours playing by that window as a girl, whilst her father made phone calls and tied up paperwork.

While he'd still been well enough to do that, anyway.

Now when he got involved, it was an annoyance and made more work for her. She tried to quell the thought, and conjured a memory of her father swinging her around in the garden as a little girl, the wind rushing into her hair, her hands caught in his, feeling safe and invincible.

She took a breath and turned around. “Dad.”

He looked up from whatever he'd been writing. “Claire! I wondered if you were all right after you rushed off at breakfast.” He gestured to the beautiful claw-footed wooden chair opposite his desk. “Sit.”

She didn't really have time, but this was important. 

She sat. “Dad, I met the new hire today. Mr Grady. The stable manager.”

Harry looked at her blankly for a second. “Who?”

“The new manager that you and Victor hired. The American.”

Her father blinked. “Oh. Yes. He's here already?”

Claire tried to gather some inner strength. “You told me yourself that he was coming today. But you didn't tell me before today. Dad, I'm the Ops Manager. I _need_ to know this sot of stuff! Victor is trying to take over.”

Harry made a soothing noise. She got the feeling he still wasn't giving her 100% of his attention. “Victor's just trying to do what he thinks is best for you. To shoulder some of the strain.”

Claire snorted. “He's doing what he thinks is best for _him_ , Dad. Don't you see? It doesn't make sense to cut me out of meetings! I need to know what's going on around here. Either I'm the Ops Manager, or, I'm not.”

Her father pored over some more paperwork, and she resisted the urge to smack his hand like he was a child. “Dad. Are you listening?”

“You're the Ops Manager,” he said, finally looking her in the eye. “What did Victor do again? He's been so helpful to me, you know.”

Claire gritted her teeth. “Ever feel like you're going around in circles?”

Harry looked at her guilelessly. “Would you mind asking Zara to bring me some tea? It seems an age since I had breakfast.”

“Sure.” She dragged in a deep breath. Sometimes she felt like a duck – calm on the surface, but underneath it frantically swimming. No – not swimming. Just hurriedly treading water, trying to stop herself from sinking. “Dad...”

_You need to retire_ , she almost said. You are nearly eighty-four. _You're forgetting things, and Victor is going to start walking all over you, if he isn't already._

But she didn't have the heart. Not today. Not today when she'd just seen the living, breathing embodiment of her father's worsening health – a new employee she'd had nothing to do with. It made her really sad.

And it really pissed her off.

And it worried her about the things that were to come. Worried her a lot.

“Hmmmm?”

“Tea?” He winked at her. “I'm dying of thirst here.”

Moments like this, he was her wonderful Dad. Charming, funny, endearing. Always over-exaggerating. And then, times when he signed things off without her and consulted Victor instead of her, and arranged meetings when he knew – or should know - she couldn’t attend ... those times, he was someone she wanted to strangle. 

She turned back to the window to gather her thoughts. Maybe if she told him in just the right way, with the right tone....

And then he started humming to himself. Claire turned again and looked at him. He had that dreamy look over his face.  He probably wasn't even still aware that she was in the room.

She just walked off to find Zara. And then she wanted to stick her head in a huge bucket of sand and never have to take it out ever again. Ever.

Well, at least not until the end of the week.

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor throws his weight around, and Claire and Owen learn a little more about each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!

“Up for a tour of the estate?” Victor asked as he arrived down at the stables at dusk. He parked his landrover messily on the gravel, blocking the main exit.

Owen looked up from his position in the tack room, checking the current catalogue of stock. This was his first day, and what he really wanted was to familiarise himself with his immediate working area. He'd been put in charge of the stables, and Goddamn if he was going to fuck that up. 

He called over his shoulder to Victor. “When? Now?”

“Why not?”

Owen turned to looked properly at the other man. Tall, broad. Ruddy, wide face. Mousy brown hair cut short and a trimmed beard to match. He struggled not to curl his lip and had to remind himself that Victor had been here years, probably. Owen was just walking into this situation. For all he knew, Victor should be in charge, and Claire sucked at her job.

But.... he just didn't get that impression.

He banked his feelings. For the moment.

“Come on,” Victor cajoled. “The horses are down to bed. All the stable-hands have gone home. You can take a break.”

“Boss should be the first to arrive and last to leave. That's how I was brought up,” Owen replied. He wondered where Claire was.

And actually, wondering pissed him off. Why did he care? He hadn't known her twenty four hours, for crying out loud. He set the checklist down, turned the tack room light off. “Okay, sure. A tour would be great.”

Victor chucked his keys in the air and caught them. “Jump in.” He got into the truck and revved the engine. Owen wondered what on earth he was compensating for.

They spoke little on the drive around the large estate. Owen didn't feel like talking to Victor. Victor, for his part, gave a fairly comprehensive tour, feeding Owen important parts of information about how the estate was run, its age. It occurred to Owen that perhaps Victor was telling him all this to get across his superiority. 

Owen wasn't intimidated.

The wind rushed through the landrover's open windows as they passed the wide lake. Its clear blue surface rippled from the touch of insects lured in. Two lines of pedalos were anchored to a long wooden hut. Doors with ice creams painted on them, retro-style, were hinged shut. A box labelled LIFE JACKETS sat to the left of the pedalos.

“We built  the boating shed about two years ago,” Victor said as they stopped on the path. Birds chirped as the twilight slowly descended. “It was Claire's idea.”

“Does it make a lot?”

Victor nodded. “Yeah. Turns a good profit, especially since we brought the ice creams in.” He paused. “People love the boats. Even at weddings. Crazy, isn't it, getting all dressed up and then risking falling out of the pedalo and messing up your suit.”

Owen thought of rolling up his shirt sleeves and taking Claire out on the lake. Of the way her russet hair would be teased out of its straight, silky lines by the breeze. Of her small pink tongue flicking out to take the top off a whipped ice cream. “Depends on who your partner is, I guess.”

Victor drove on, showing Owen the main site for marquees for weddings, and the pigeon clay shooting area for corporate away days. “The rota for events is kept on the whiteboard in reception, but also on all the computer systems. You want to know what's going on, you check there or you check with me.”

“Or any of the other management, I guess,” Owen said absently.

“Mainly me.”

“ _ Right _ .” The conversation was far from over, but Owen needed to see how the land lay further before he took any responsibilities on board.

Why the fuck was he even considering this his responsibility? He'd been here five minutes. He hadn't even worn any kind of ass grove in the couch.

“Listen, I'm pretty beat. I think I'll walk back to the cottage.”

Victor frowned. “It's nearly two miles.”

“It'll give me a chance to work up an appetite for dinner, then.” He ignored the Englishman's look of surprise. “Besides, it's a fine evening.”

“Suit yourself. It's all the All Hands meeting tomorrow at ten. If you get there early, they serve pastries.”

“Thanks.”

He exited the car, feeling oddly like he'd been weighed and measured. Victor drove off in a cloud of exhaust and Owen breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn't expected to want to take sides just after arriving here. This was supposed to be a palate cleanser. A clean start, somewhere far away where he could clear his head – not clutter it up with estate politics, or even more complicated, a beautiful woman.

He followed the path back down to the lake, and as he crested the small hill, he saw a lone, slim figure standing by the lake, her arms folded, leaning on the metal safety railing. It looked like dinner would have to wait a few more minutes.

****

Claire turned at the sound of footsteps on the grass behind her. She already knew it was Owen. She'd smelled him before she saw him – in a good way. 

She hadn't been able to forget his scent since they'd met that morning. Part clean sweat, part outdoors, part spicy, woodsy cologne. 

He saluted her as he walked up. Irreverence seemed part of his personality. “Hey, Boss.”

For some reason, him calling her that rankled. 

Maybe it was because she wanted him to call her other things in that whiskey-on-the-rocks accent. 

She shook it off, trying not to be annoyed.

“Hey. How was your first day?”

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. A stray lock of hair fell over his forehead messily. It gave him a boyish look. She'd already noticed that his smile started on the left side of his mouth before spreading.

Lord. She needed to get this under control. She was thirty years old. 

Not sixteen.

“Not bad. Finding my feet. You know how it is.”

“Of course.” She leaned on the railing again. Her phone chirped and she read the text – Zara asking for the new code to the laundry room. She texted it back, feeling grateful to have a memory like a steel trap. With her father's condition and Victor breathing down her neck, she had no choice. “Sorry. The estate won't run itself.” 

She slipped her phone back into her pocket. Her suit itched and she couldn't wait to stand under a hot shower.

She knew that when she did, there was a real danger that she'd be touching herself to the image of Owen's crooked smile, to the fantasy of what she might find under his shirt. How he’d smell, where his neck met his shoulder. 

If he’d groan when she bit him there.

She mentally smacked herself.

Owen came to stand a polite few feet from her, leaning on the railing also. “Beautiful.”

“It's always been here,” she shrugged. “But I do like coming here.”

“Victor said the boats over there were your idea.”

Surprise shot her brows up. “He did?”

“Sure. He gave me a tour.”

Annoyance marched through the surprise. “I was going to give you the tour after the All Hands meet. Guess he beat me to it.”

She expected Owen to say something like  _ maybe he got confused _ , or  _ perhaps you didn't forget to tell him _ , but he only continued to look out across the water, its surface rippling slightly in the summer breeze drifting through the hot air of the day.

“I'd put money on you being a better driver,” he said eventually.

A surprised laugh bubbled out of her. “Victor likes to live on the edge.” 

She glanced at him. Stubble lined his face, dark brown with gold picked out by the slowly descending sunshine. “Why Wales?”

He turned, a question on his handsome face.

“I mean, rather than.... Where're you from?”

“Kentucky. The Bluegrass state.”

Across the lake, swans climbed on to the far bank, curling up and tucking their beaks into their feathers.

“You're a long way from home.”

“What can I say? I like to travel.”

Oh, there was a lot more than that. She studied him, thinking of the undersea mountains, where only a small portion is visible. What was he running away from?

Perhaps nothing. She could be reading too much into it. “You don't plan to stay long-term, then?”

He met her gaze and held it. She got a distinct and uncomfortable impression that he saw right through her – everything, and all the rest. “I didn't say that,” he said quietly.

He moved fractionally closer. Claire felt every cell of her body stand on end, waiting. Wanting. Hesitating. Her pulse leaped in her throat.

Then her phone alarm beeped, and she stood up straight, reaching for it. “Sorry. Time for me to hit the gym.”

He glanced at her phone, and she saw the smirk on his face. “Right this second?”

“Lateness is a sin, Mr. Grady.” She was only half-serious, but the surprise on his handsome face was worth it. “See you tomorrow.”

“Until tomorrow, then. And my name's  _ Owen.” _

She ignored him and power-walked back to the main house, hoping that she'd work off some of the lust on the weights machine. Or the treadmill. And if that didn't work then she would try the rowing machine.

Later, in bed, alone, she'd realise that she hadn't worked any of it off. At all.

 

*** 

 

Owen arrived early to the All Hands meeting and helped himself to a coffee. Claire had already arrived – no surprises there. She sat at the front, facing him and all the other employees, a coffee on the wide glass desk in front of her with a stack of smooth white paper. He glimpsed the word “AGENDA” on them and resisted the urge to sigh out loud.

This was the corporate world after all. He'd never had any time for it – but, he recognised the need for it.

Outside, the sun beat down. Outside, where he wanted to be.

Then Claire crossed her long, pale legs, hiking her dove grey skirt up. He revised his opinion on where he wanted to be.

Their eyes met and held. Owen playfully saluted her as he had done the previous evening. Her lips twitched, but she didn't fully smile. Of course she didn't. It was all about control with her. He wanted to make her lose control. See her cheeks flush. 

Hear her cry his name in abandon.

That last one had occupied a good portion of his late night thoughts.

She averted her eyes and Owen knew he'd affected her. He couldn't say he didn't feel sort of proud. 

OK, pretty proud.

People filtered in. Owen noted that Victor wasn't late – but he cut it real close. His suit was slightly too tight across the shoulders. Pinstripe. Too hot for the day. He looked like a man trying to be something he wasn’t. Or trying to make a statement.

Claire glanced at Victor, the corners of her mouth pinching slightly, but she bid him a polite good morning. Tension hung thick, heavy as the summer sun in the large room.

Harry Dearing followed Victor. The older man wore a suit and slippers. Owen wondered if anyone knew that Claire's father – the estate patriarch - was getting further and further down the sliding scale of his illness. No one commented.

Once everyone was seated, Claire distributed the agendas. “Morning, everyone. Thanks for coming today, even though we didn't manage to get any pastries.”

There were a few good-natured moans around the room about everyone having to adhere to Claire's diet.

“As you know, Summer is our busiest time, so I'll keep it brief. First item on the agenda: Our new stable manager, Owen Grady. Mr Grady has come to us from Kentucky, in the USA. He's a long way from home, so I'd appreciate it if you'd make him feel welcome whilst he's in the settling in period. Item two-”

“Item two, the continuing issue of items going missing from their designated areas,” Victor interrupted.

Owen saw Claire glare at her deputy sharply, but she said nothing. He wondered how long it would take her to crack.

“Several small ticket items have been reported missing from all areas of the estate,” Victor continued. “Hugh – the football in storage in the rec room. Jenny – the game of Scrabble in the drawing room. Because non-valuable items are kept in these areas, we don't have security cameras installed. However, I am going to review that today as the problem doesn't seem to have stopped. As we've begun randomised checks of guests' luggage before they leave, I can only conclude that someone here on the estate - temporary or permanent employee, that is, is responsible.”

Everyone nodded and Owen noticed that they seemed to be eating out of Victor's hand. Claire's fingers were curled into a fist on top of the large desk.

“Item three,” she began, and this time, Victor did not interrupt her.

They were done after forty-five minutes. 

Owen saw that Harry didn't say a single word during the entire meeting. He seemed to have checked out, only blinking in confusion when Claire helped him to stand up. “Come on, Dad,” he heard her say quietly, love and chagrin threading through her voice. “Meeting's over.”

“But we didn't discuss anything yet,” he muttered back in a childlike stage whisper.

People shuffled, and Owen wondered if Claire had someone to talk to about managing her Dad. 

Then he kicked himself for thinking it. This was literally his second day of knowing her. And she had coped just fine without him until now. 

_ She doesn't need you, pal. _

People stood up to go about their day. Owen hesitated as Claire and Harry walked from the room, Claire in the heels she never seemed to be out of, at least not during the day. He wondered how her trip to the gym had gone; pictured her sweaty and barely dressed for a moment, before shaking the image off, irritated and aroused and wanting to take his temper out on someone.

He was down at the stables before he knew it, rearranging the duties of a surprised Sarah so he could shovel hay himself, trying to work off the damn confusing combination of lust and anger he seemed to have rolled up inside him.

“Mr Grady?”

He was getting damn tired of that. “Sarah. You can call me Owen.”

“Yes sir. I mean Owen. Just wanted to remind you that the two-day guided ride is tomorrow. The couple, Mr and Mrs Rose, they've...” she turned to her clipboard.

“They've chosen Aladdin and Seren for the trip. I know. I'm takin’ it.” He'd been up early this morning, supervising the feeding of the horses and taking them out to pasture together. He glanced over to see the four of them in the grassy, fenced-in area now, Seren and Betsy with their heads close together, as if watching them. He could swear he heard one of them snicker. “Thanks for the reminder.”

“No problem.” She turned away, headed for the tack room.

“Sarah, wait up a sec.”

The girl turned back.

“Your old boss... Seb, was it?”

She nodded. 

“Why did he leave?” It honestly hadn't occurred to him to ask during the interview, but seeing the dynamic in that board room had tipped him off to the rushing waterfall that crashed beneath the calm surface.

Sarah hesitated. “I.... he got a new job somewhere else.”

She looked panicky, and Owen decided not to push it. He wasn't a total dick. “Sure. Thanks, Sarah.”

He went back to shovelling hay, deep in thought. When he turned to look at Seren and Betsy again, the pair of them definitely looked as if they were having a joke at his expense.

He let them laugh it up.    
  
  
  
  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Owen takes his first out of town ride, and Claire needs a favour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're still reading, thank you! I write this when my 8 week old baby naps and it keeps me sane.

Early the next morning, just as the pink fingers of dawn stretched across the Summer sky, Owen swung by Claire's office to tell her he was heading off on the two-day ride with Mr & Mrs Rose.

Despite the hour, he found her there. Of course he did. The woman probably didn't know the meaning of the phrase “lie-in.”

Then he remembered her father at the All Hands meeting and mentally chastised himself a little. What was that his mother always said? “Be kind, everyone is fighting their own battle.”

Claire seemed to constantly be fighting several.

She sat at her computer, angrily typing on a sleek grey keyboard. Her phone chirped and she occasionally paused to look at it.

Classical music played softly in the background. The walls were covered in promo posters for the estate, as well as a huge whiteboard displaying a staff chart of who was in and who was out on tasks or on leave.

More to avoid scaring her than for politeness, he knocked on the door.

Her head snapped up. Did he imagine it, or did her face flood with a little colour?  “Mr Grady. You're up early.”

“Shouldn't I be?” He strode a small way into her room.

If she didn't appreciate his scarred work boots on her white wooden floor, she said nothing. “I didn't mean to imply anything. How are you settling in?”

“Just fine. Good gym session last night?”

Surprise flickered across her face, and then she shrugged. “I didn't find it particularly satisfying.”

Owen suppressed a smile. He hadn't found his solitary dinner last night that satisfying, either. “I just came by to tell you that I'll be off in an hour, taking the two day ride. Couple've booked a honeymoon trip.”

He all but saw the wheels rotate in her head. “Oh yes. Mr & Mrs Rose. I've called ahead to the lodge you're overnighting at, they'll see that champagne is provided.”

“You shouldn't have,” he deadpanned.

Her lips twitched. “Funny. You can call me if you run into any problems. Lionel at the lodge will look after the horses. The game pie on their menu is excellent, by the way. Lionel hired the chef out of London.”

“Sure. I'll make a note to try it.” He took a last look at her. She looked perfect. Not a hair out of place. He suddenly wanted to fuss her, mess up her suit and her neat fall of shiny hair, see what she'd do.

But he didn't, and he couldn't. 

“See you then,” she said absently.

Owen knew when he'd been dismissed. He headed off to the stables to ride, hoping to get rid of the excess energy he'd seemed to develop when Claire was nearby.

The ride itself was soothing. The couple, James and Suzi Rose, had chosen a gentle route that took in plenty of spectacular Welsh scenery without straining horse or rider. 

Owen had spent most of last night poring over the map and tour guide, and despite only just being appointed, he managed what he thought was a passable tour of the area's history, stopping only occasionally to surreptitiously check his notes for a historically important date or the name of an important figure.

When they stopped to take lunch – an estate-provided mini picnic of scotch eggs, dressed salad, pork pies, and bara brith, traditional welsh tea-soaked fruit cake, Owen checked his phone. What had he been hoping to see? A message from Claire? It appeared he could dream on, as all he got was radio silence. He wondered how many fires she'd put out today.

Aladdin and Seren behaved themselves impeccably during the ride. It helped that the Roses were no novices and had ridden before, albeit briefly. They followed Owen's lead at all times and only stopped to take photos on wide parts of the route, allowing others to go around them, not clogging up the path.

All three were tired when they reached the lodge just before six. True to form, Lionel met them at the stables entrance and immediately took charge of all three mounts, waving the Roses into the lodge and giving them a pretty, antique-style key to their rooms.

“I'm bunking in the stables, then?” Owen asked dryly.

Lionel glanced over from smoothing Aladdin's mane and Owen got the impression, again, that he was being measured by the older, bearded man. “You're the new hire over at Brynarian, aren't you?”

“Sure am.” Owen tucked his thumb into his belt loop, feeling a bit off-kilter. 

“American? Long way from home.”

“Home's what you make it, don't you think?”

Aladdin whinnied softly as if in agreement.

“Have you met Claire?” When Owen nodded, Lionel added; “She's a very sweet girl. Hardworking, but always fair.”

“She sure seems to work every second of the day.”

Lionel didn't say anything to that, instead methodically grooming Aladdin and speaking to him in soothing tones.

Finally he said, “You can eat in the restaurant proper or in the kitchen if you prefer. I've got a game pie with your name on it.”

Tired of feeling just like the new kid at school, Owen took the cue to leave. No wonder Claire had recommended Lionel to him. They were similar in that they both had a way of letting you know you were absolutely dismissed.

The game pie turned out to be worth the trip, though.

 

***

Claire flipped through her diary , logging calls and ticking off brochures that had been sent out to potential sponsors and customers. Only a few days left until the Big Wedding. Clara Taylor, daughter of Edward Taylor, eightieth richest man in the UK – pretty damn rich – had booked the estate for her big white wedding, and it was giving Claire a big fat headache.

However, Brynarian would also get a big fat paycheck, so she did her best to ensure that everything would be fabulous. 

The dietary requirements were in, catering had been briefed, and all she needed now was to check that each area for the wedding would have all necessary decorations to hand.

An email pinged and she opened it. It had come from Clara Taylor herself. Claire took a deep breath and a long drink of her Americano. Emails from Clara were best read sitting down.

Actually, she thought to herself, they were best not read  _ at all _ , but, as beautiful as the trees were in Bryanarian, they did not grow money.

The bride's emails were usually in demand, not request, format, and this was no different. She wanted a horse and carriage. Oh lord. The wedding was set for three days. Claire took another fortifying breath. She'd never get a carriage in three days. The best she could hope for was to get a hay cart and make it seem rustically romantic, but that would never suit the aesthetic of Clara's huge, heavy on the glamour, Princess-style wedding. 

She pressed her fingers to her eyes and then her gaze wandered to her phone. She could call Seb. He would absolutely know someone with a carriage. He might be able to pull some strings-

No. She cut herself short. Seb didn't work here anymore, and if she so much as leaned on him for a second, he would think... 

Christ knew what he'd think. But it would be the wrong thing. She had to stand on her own two feet.

Her lips twisted. She'd been doing that long enough, She should know how, only too well.

She picked up the phone and started to dial one of her event suppliers, and then hesitated. Owen's tanned face flashed through her mind. How long had he been in this country? Could he possibly have any contacts who would lend them a carriage for a day? And how much would the estate need to fork out for it (before billing the Taylor family)?

He was worth a shot. Better than calling Seb, any day. She dialled the stable instead. Sarah answered.

“Hi Sarah. Is Owen there?”

A brief pause, then the younger woman came back on the phone. “He's here, he's going through the vaccination records. Shall I put him on the phone?”

“No, I'm coming down there. Thanks.”

She said goodbye to Sarah and stood up, straightening her business suit. She wasn't accustomed to going to ask for things, but beggars could not be choosers, and she knew without a shadow of a doubt, that if she didn't make this wedding stunning for Clara, then she would never hear the end of it. For her entire life, probably.

But if she did make the  wedding everything that the demanding bride wanted, it could mean even more big-ticket contracts for the estate.

The estate she'd one day own, maybe. If Victor hadn't already convinced her father to alter his will. 

Her stomach clutched and she ordered the thought from her mind.

She thought about ditching her heels, then reconsidered. Owen was tall. And the shoes made her feel powerful in a world, that, she felt most days, still belonged to men. If the shoes helped her, then god dammit, she'd wear them.

When she left the office, one of the rangers was passing on his quadbike, and she caught a lift down to the stables, greeted by the familiar scent of hay and the sounds of horses snuffling and communicating as they grazed in the cordoned-off field nearby.

Sarah rushed to greet her. “Hi, Claire. Owen's in the tack room.”

“Thanks.”

His back was to her when she arrived. She heard him half-muttering to himself, a pen in his mouth and three clipboards stacked a bit precariously in his hands. When he turned, she saw that she'd caught him off guard, and if it was small of her to feel satisfied, well then, she was small. She'd have to live with it.

“Morning.” The gruff edge to his smooth southern twang told her he hadn't been up long. The vestiges of sleep ghosted around his eyes. 

“Morning, Mr Grady.”

He huffed. “ _ Owen _ . Mr Grady is my dad. Am I going to have to keep going through this with you? You seem smarter’n the average bear.”

She ignored that. “I need to talk to you about something. Have you worked in the UK before this?”

If he was surprised at the question, he didn't show it at all. “Morning Owen, how are you today? Oh sure, I'm just dandy thanks, settling in to my new cottage, yes, the two-day ride, the first I've done here,  went well.  _ So  _ nice of you to ask.”

Claire folded her arms. She had to admit she struggled not to smile at his sarcasm. She did, secretly, find it hard to resist a smart mouth.

“Fine. Let's do this. How was yesterday's ride with Mr & Mrs Rose? They'll be completing a feedback form today, by the by.”

“And they had better give some good feedback.” Owen put the clipboards down and folded his arms too, to match her own stance. “They waxed lyrical about it all the ride home. Amazing scenery. Delicious food. Soft bed. They might even book again and bring their kid. And by the by – what does that even mean? Seems a weird idiom - Lionel is totally into you.”

Surprised, Claire found herself off-kilter. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“He practically warned me off you as clearly as  if you were a prize deer and he was a circling tiger.”

“Don't be so ridiculous.” She didn't ask why Lionel – who she felt like a sister towards – had felt the need to warn Owen off. What had the American said? Who knew. She didn't think she wanted to know. “Can we talk properly now?”

His lips twitched. “We are talking properly. What do you want?”

“I want...” she blew out a breath and pushed her fringe off her face. “Sorry Owen. It's been a hell of a morning. Let's start again. How about coffee?”

She watched emotions flicker over his face. He was trying to decide whether he should blow her off or not. Finally, he said; “Sure. Step into my office.”

The office was a tiny box room with a clear desk, loaded shelves, and one visitor's chair. Claire sat in it, feeling strange.

Late one night, she had almost acquiesced to Seb’s request for sex on the desk.

She was very glad that, in hindsight, she’d baulked.

As soon as he'd left she had changed all the furniture in this room, at her own expense. If anyone noticed, they had said nothing.

She glanced at Owen, fiddling with the coffee machine, and wondered how much, if anything, he knew about Seb. About her and Seb.

And whether he'd be as good at sex as Seb.

She was betting Owen would be better – but she'd never find out.

“Milk?  Sugar?” Owen asked over his shoulder.

“Just black, thanks.”

He set the cups before them, the little polystyrene affairs dwarfed by his broad hands with their long fingers. “Let's try and have one encounter where we talk to each other like the civilised adults that we are, shall we?”

She felt a smile tugging at her lips. “It's worth a shot.”

He sipped his coffee. The steam from the liquid drifted up before his face. She got the impression, again, that his clear green eyes saw right through her, and she struggled not to squirm a bit in her seat. What was it about him that made her think that he'd cut right through the bullshit and see to the heart of her? What if she laid herself bare before him, would just the right caress from his hands make her forget about her father, Victor, the estate drama?

She couldn't risk it anyway, however much she wanted to.

God, she wanted to.

“So. How can I help you, Claire?”

His southern accent drew out the syllables of her name, made it sound sexy. She swallowed and quickly took a sip of coffee, almost burning her tongue. “You might have heard from the All Hands meeting that Clara Taylor's wedding is in a few days' time.”

“Right. The circus.”

She privately agreed with him, but could absolutely not say so. “The wedding is really important to the estate. And the bride is.... exacting in what she wants,” she finally added. “Clara's standards are high, so we want to ensure she enjoys her day and spreads the word among her peers.”

He nodded tightly. “More circuses mean more money.”

Claire raised a brow at him. “And she has just asked for a horse and carriage to meet her at the entrance to the estate to bring her and her new husband down to the marquee by the water.”

Owen's own brows rose. “This gig is in three days and she wants a horse and carriage? And let me guess. You want to give her one.”

“We promise customers the best day of their lives – Bryanarian is a business. And we are supposed to deliver on our promises after all.”

“You've promised her a miracle, then.”

Claire sighed. “Sorry, I forgot who's been managing this estate for the last few years? I'll throw you a bone: not you.” When he didn't respond, she added, “I haven't actually responded to the email yet. I was wondering if you'd have any contacts.”

  
  
  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Owen lends a hand, and Claire and Victor square off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading!

Owen lost count of the number of times that he considered blowing Claire off during the conversation. Sure, he'd listened to everyone chirp about the CT wedding at the meeting. He'd heard of her – spoiled tobacco fortune heiress who wanted her way, and who usually got it. He wasn't in the least surprised at her demands, but he was a bit surprised that Claire wanted to fulfill them.

But it was money, and money spoke long and it spoke loud, he supposed. It always had.

“Contacts?” He was going to make her work for this.

If she knew it, no emotion showed on her face. She wore her hair in a short, complicated French braid. His fingers itched to untie it and let those strands fall loose. He wanted to actually see her relax, for once.

Did she ever?

“As an employee of Bryanarian, I'd like to reach out to you to assist me with sourcing a carriage for Clara and her new husband. She's willing to pay for it, so it doesn't matter if it needs to come from across the country. Do you think our horses could pull it?”

“Do I think they could? Absolutely. Are they going to? Hell, no.”

Her brow creased. “Whyever not?”

“They're not trained to do that yet, Claire. And I cant train them in three days. You need horses that know the feel and the weight of a carriage, and who won't spook easy when they're already doing an unfamilliar task.”

She looked so disappointed that he wanted to say something, to put her at ease. But he couldn't and he wouldn't force the horses into doing something they didn't know how to do.

“Look. I know a guy in Gloucester, where I had my first job in this country.”

She brightened.

“But.... Let me ask him. It's a big ask – have you got two free horses you could just drive down here and also a fancy carriage...”

“For which he'll get paid handsomely.” She turned her coffee cup and Owen noticed again that she wore no rings on her slim fingers. “We can get someone to dress the carriage, no problem. I just need the horses and the vehicle.”

He waited for her to ask for something else. When she didn't, he wanted to force some sort of strong emotion out of her so much that it almost hurt, so instead he stood up. “Something else you want?”

She looked as if she was going to hesitate, but she stood up too. “No. Thanks, Mr Grady. I really appreciate your help. Once the wedding is over, maybe we can have a progress report? I really would like to know how you're settling in around here.”

Owen hesitated now. How to tell her that Victor had already sent him an Outlook invitation for fortnightly progress meetings. Why? As Ops Manager it was clear that Claire should be doing that. He very much doubted she'd passed that over to Victor, especially knowing the animosity between them.

He decided just to do it. “Ah, you might want to talk to Victor about that.”

A glacial look passed over her features. “Oh, believe me, I will. Thanks for the heads-up.”

She stalked out of the room. A perfect imprint of her lips, rosy pink, remained on the snow-white polystyrene cup she'd used.

  
  


* * *

 

Claire got her chance to confront Victor over lunch. The canteen on site was open to the public, but contained a staff area where employees ate at a considerable discount. Taking her time, making sure a tight lid was set on her calm, Claire served herself a portion of fried chicken – she'd need a treat after dealing wit her wayward deputy – and a big bowl of rainbow salad. She carried her tray over to where Victor sat, the heels of her tan pumps clicking on the floor. She liked the sound of them. Familliar sounds comforted her.

In her pocket, her phone chimed. Let it be Owen with news of the elusive horse and carriage for the CT wedding.

But despite the big wedding nipping at her heels, and despite Owen's gruff attractiveness, handsome and intriguing in a rough-and-tumble way, he and any news would have to wait.

Victor flicked her a look as she sat down. “Afternoon.”

“Hey.” She set out her cutlery and her lunch choices, deliberately taking her time. Rushing this would mean losing her temper, again. And losing her temper meant she was definitely not in control. “How's your day going?”

“Pretty good.” He forked up some rice and beans – today's chilli special had evidently been his choice for lunch. “Been supervising the set up of the marquee today for the CT wedding.”

Just like she'd asked. Claire thought for a second. But perhaps this was still all part of Victor's plan. To still do as she asked, most of the time. Then if she outright accused him of anything, she would seem like the unreasonable one. “Great, thanks.” She dug into her own salad, waiting for an opening or a natural segue. 

Hoping that he'd give her one now.

He didn't. “When's the bride arriving again? She's got a suite here, hasn't she?”

“Yes, but she's getting ready at the hotel her father booked first. We won't see her until the reception.”

Victor shook his head in wonder. “One hundred and two guests and she gets married in a tiny village church, so small that she's got to erect a cinema screen outside for the other guests to see her get wed. Beats me.”

Claire was reminded of Owen's circus comment but kept her thoughts to herself, instead chewing a forkful of sweetcorn and beetroot.

They chatted for a few minutes about the minatue of the day, until finally Victor gave her the opening she'd been hoping for. “We both got an email today from Mrs Rose – she booked the couple's two day ride? She's thrilled. Wants to rebook. Promising for Owen.”

She didn't miss the hidden message: _the man I hired._

“Very,” she agreed. “Something I'm sure you can discuss at his upcoming progress meeting.”

To his credit, something like regret flashed over his face, but it quickly got smothered. “Claire, the estate has goodness knows how many employees-”

“Seventy two, at last count.”

He frowned. “Trying to prove you're more up to date than me?”

“I'm not trying to prove anything.” She dug for tact. Blowing a gasket right here would achieve exactly zero. “Victor, I do appreciate your help. I made you deputy, for crying out loud. But we have to work together. And you scheuduling progress meetings with our new hire, without even consuting my diary first... it smacks of unprofessionalism.”

He didn't reply to that, just looked at her steadily. Trying to brazen her out, she knew. Well, she wouldn't cave. She was made of sterner stuff than that. “I realise that my father might be having some issues right now. But that doesn't get in the way of me doing my job.  I want Mr Grady's first progress review to be re-scheduled so that I can attend. After that, we'll divide up the progress reviews so you can have staff that only you manage – but I want to be copied into everything.” She set her fork down on her plate with a decisive click. “Have I made myself clear?”

He smirked. “Perfectly.”

“And you'll send me a new diary marker for Mr Grady's review?”

“Just as soon as I get back.” His smirk dropped, but she saw the unhappiness in his gaze. He picked up his tray and stalked off without saying goodbye. 

Claire sat back in her chair and started to pick at her chicken leg, her pulse eventually slowing.

She might have won the battle, but the war was far from over. Especially if Victor continued to lure her father over to his way of thinking. Harry Lulworth was a good man, but good men were only as sound as their minds, and Harry's was definiely only working in fits and starts. His invaluable PA, Carol, saw to most things, but even she couldn't track Harry every second of the day and night. Everyone needed a break sometimes.

Too bad Claire had too much on her plate to really take one.

She took her chance to check her smartphone and saw a text from Owen: Got news on your horse and carriage. Call when you have time.

How like him not to mince words. She could picture him now, tapping out the message, and then walking off to do his next task, perfectly measured, confident in himself and his actions, never second-guessing himself or his plans.

If only she felt the same way about her own all the time.

She flicked to her calendar app and saw that she had a spare forty five minutes. She could use it to check up on the catering department's inventory for the CT wedding.

Or she could just email them about it and instead she could....

The sun beat down outside and she suddenly had a yearning to feel it on her face. To not have to trot to one meeting after another, or sit in her sun-house of an office, doing paperwork whilst trying to enjoy the classical music she hardly ever had time to listen to properly, playing in the background.

Oh a whim, really, she texted Owen. What she needed to ask him could have been done over the phone. But...

***

He waited for her when she arrived, leaning against one of the towering, old oak trees that stood sentry by the lake. His arms were folded and he wore an  off-white chambray shirt, just tight-fitting enough for her to notice – and enjoy – his biceps under the material.

For a few moments she just watched him watch the tourists on the lake – boating, laughing, some of them eating ice creams from the cart that a local dairy farm supplied and ran for Brynarian's lake customers and the customers in the main canteen. The ice cream was organic and came in the popular flavours; chocolate, raspberry ripple and vanilla. It had been a big hit all summer so far. Claire had to restrain herself from eating a whole carton in one go after a stressful day.

“Mr Grady.”

He turned to see her, and gave what was beginning to be his trademark salute. “Claire.”

“Thanks for coming down here.”

“Not a problem, especially on a day like this.” He shielded his eyes from a sun with a flattened hand, and she took the opportunity to enjoy the way his torso tapered slightly into his jeans. He really must work out. The stable girls, Sarah and Meymuna, were probably going nuts over him.

She folded her arms and looked at the lake instead. A dad rowed his two children around as they cheered him on. The family made a lovely picture.

“You said you had news?”

“My contact in Gloucester will do it. But,” he added, “He wants a meal in the hotel restaurant as well as payment.”

“Done.”

He raised a brow. “You don't know how much he wants to charge.”

“You don't know how rich the Taylor family is. But fair point, name his price.” When Owen gave the figure, Claire shrugged. “I've given worse news. Have you got a photo of the carriage?”

He pulled out his phone and thumbed through the images. Claire ordered herself not to crane her neck to see. Were there any photos of a woman? Did he have any kids? She knew next to nothing about this man, and yet last night he filled her last waking moments as she'd lain alone in bed.

“Here.”

“God, it's gorgeous. She'll definitely pay. And shire horses too.... Thanks. You've hit the jackpot. Really.” She almost leant up to kiss his cheek, but stopped short. That really would be unprofessional. “Thanks. I can’t wait to tell her.”

“You’re welcome.” Genuine warmth filled his clear green eyes, and for a moment she wondered what it was like to be loved by him. If he had a big, generous heart. How he kissed. 

How he did plenty of other things, too.

She opened her mouth to say something else, but her phone started to buzz. How like her phone to interrupt any sort of moment she might have been having with him. “Sorry. Got to go. Duty calls.”

“Doesn’t it always.”

She got the distinct impression that he was taking the measure of her, again, but she didn’t have time to analyse that right now. She gave him what she hoped was a cheery wave before heading back up to the estate office.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to a demanding guest, things between Claire and Owen come to a head.

A few days later, the “circus,” as Owen had succinctly – to his mind anyway - put it, had come to town. He strode into the canteen for breakfast to find the staff at abuzz with news of the marquee, and the woman from Public Relations holding court with her co-workers, telling them all about one celebrity photographer or another who had rung fishing for details. She’d had to tell them no, that a private photographer had already been booked by Ms Taylor.

Owen gathered that she’d enjoyed it immensely, from the smile on her face.

He let them laugh it up. Someone here might as well enjoy the huge, ridiculous spectacle.

He would bet his month’s wage that Claire wasn’t enjoying it.

In his opinion, a wedding was about the marriage. Not about that one day – a one day that normally cost a small fortune.

If he ever married, he’d want it to be somewhere quiet, with only a few people close to him and the birds in the trees witnessing. His bride would don a simple but beautiful white dress and weave flowers through her hair.

Pots of cheerful daisies in full bloom lined the long windowsill on the far side of the canteen and they caught his eye. He had a sudden image of Claire looking over her shoulder at him, her hair flowing free, crowned with a ring of loosely woven daisies.

The image knocked the wind from him for a moment.

How ridiculous.

Owen shoved the unwanted picture from his mind.

He ate his breakfast of fresh granola and strong coffee by the huge window where the daisies sat. The canteen and the office stood on a relative hill to the remainder of the estate proper, and Owen could see down into the valley where the huge marquee had been erected, the entrance marked by a long red carpet and flanked with bay trees. Tiny golden lights had been painstakingly woven in between the flat, dark green leaves so that, come sundown, they would glow bright like tiny fireflies; beacons in the encroaching darkness of the evening.

He expected the set up was even grander inside. He wouldn’t get to see it, and didn’t particularly want to, either.

The fairy-tale carriage had arrived as promised yesterday evening and would soon make the trip to the local village church to collect the bride and groom and bring them down the estate road to the marquee. The sun beat down despite the relatively early hour. Owen felt sorry for the male guests who would be toughing out the day in their suits and ties.

He briefly wondered what Claire’s day had in store. She’d be rushing around ten to the dozen today, he’d bet his left nut on it. Bowing to the demands of the circus queen. And she'd do it all with an oscar-worthy smile.

The pressure on her, as the potential heir to all this, the sprawling Brynarian estate, would be huge.

Not for the first time, he did wonder what sort of melting pot he’d wandered into by accepting the job.

Claire -the put-upon Op Manager. Her father, the aging patriarch. Who knew if he still wanted the title, or hung on because he couldn't stand change. And Victor, the potential usurper to the throne.

A storm was brewing, and Owen was in two minds about whether he wanted to be around to hear the first crack of thunder.

He got his answer about Claire when she appeared an hour later in the doorway of the stable office-cum-tack room.

“Owen.”

He'd heard the click of her shoes before her voice, but he'd decided to wait it out. “What can I do you for, Claire?”

She strode over. Her hair was again swept up in that tidy chignon; the one that made him want to pull out the pins and let the strands fall gloriously free. “I need your help. Two of the wedding assistants have called in sick today. I've got maybe an hour until I have to go and make nice with Ms Taylor and her entourage, and I'm not even sure that all the accoutrements are ready for the drinks reception in the library.”

Despite her calm tone, her face was strained; she was already tired. He could see what it had cost her to ask for his help sketched all over her face. “Sure. I can spare Sarah and Meymuna for a couple hours.”

“I wish that were true – but I ran into them on my way here, and they both went white at the thought of being, even in a tiny way, responsible for any kind of big-budget party.”

Owen felt a pang of sympathy. The girls were barely eighteen; why should they have to deal with shit like post-wedding drinks and diva demands.

“House-keeping?”

“All busy getting the suite ready for Ms Taylor and her entourage - some of which I hadn’t been told about until just now.” She pressed her lips together. “I swear, if those two assistants aren't on their deathbeds, I won't be held responsible for my actions.”

He went out on a limb. “What about Victor?”

She arched her brow.

“Okay then.” She had come to him, not Victor, for help, and that face made him feel ridiculously good. Powerful. Needed. And he wouldn't let her down. “I need to talk to the girls, tell them to hold the fort. There are no rides today; just the general maintenance. Won't be too tricky. Then you can tell me what needs to be done.”

 

***

Hours later, as Claire, her father, Victor, and the head of the housekeeping staff showed Clara and her – not insignificant – entourage to their suite and rooms, Claire thanked God in high Heaven that Owen had helped her out. He'd been a sight to behold. On the drive back up to the main house, he'd talked through the necessaries with her, then thoroughly looked over her list, taking in her verbal pictures of how Clara wanted the library dressed, the mood she had in mind, the flowers that had been delivered and which needed to be set in place. He'd co-ordinated it, while Claire ran around between house-keeping and catering, checking what felt like a million details,about a million times.

They'd felt like a team. Had worked seamlessly.

She trusted him.

When Victor found out, she might have a lot of explaining to do, but he'd been taking a clay pigeon shooting corporate away day out on another part of the estate, so he had been tied up, in any case. She didn't think he'd be pleased, but it was done now.

And all the rushing and stress was worth it, Claire thought now, as she watched Clara Taylor twirl around the beautifully dressed suite. The huge four-poster bed dominated the main room of the suite. A blood-red and gold runner blanketed the foot, and at the head, fluffy white pillows vied with brocade cushions. Brocade curtains framed the bed itself, inviting guests to pull the cord and close themselves off from the world.

The white carpet underfoot ensured that all sound was absorbed. Claire had always felt like walking on it seemed akin to walking in freshly fallen snow, sort of magical and oh, so silent. To the left of the bed, six feet away, sat two plush armchairs in deep gold brocade, bracketing wide French doors that led to a balcony overlooking the estate.

“It's perfect, isn't it, Daddy?”

Gerald Taylor smiled indulgently. Claire had got the measure of him at their previous meetings; both over Skype and in person, and guessed that he didn't much care where or how the wedding took place, just as long as it was what his darling daughter wanted. “It's perfect. And it should be – you only marry once, after all, baby girl.”

Claire hid a smile. Gerald was on his fourth wife. If he decided to get married again, she hoped he'd choose Brynarian.

Then again – the stress might kill her. If it did, she thought morbidly, at least she'd have a lot less to worry about. She suppressed a slightly hysterical giggle and breathed in deeply to prevent it surfacing.

Clara did look a vision in her fishtail wedding dress, a white silk affair beaded with hundreds of tiny freshwater pearls. Her hair had been swept into a huge, fanciful beehive, except loose bangs, with framed her heart-shaped face. The Tobacco Princess, the papers called her, and she certainly looked royal.

Clara took Claire's hands in hers. “Thank you, Claire, for everything. I can't wait to have drinks in the library and then dinner and dancing. Oh, it's going to be just blissfully perfect! I can tell.” She squeezed Claire in for a hug. “By the way darling – naughty me – I forgot to tell you that Toby the photographer needs a room for tonight. That won't be a problem, will it?”

It would be a massive problem, actually, Claire thought with an internal groan. There was no guest rooms free, and all the cottages were occupied. She couldn't ask Zara to vacate the room she'd be using. Poor girl would be on her feet until midnight or later, waiting on the wedding guests.

The only option was for Claire to give up her own room and bunk in her office. At least it had a sofa bed, she thought, frowning. The fact it had a sofa bed reminded her that  this was not the first time a bride had made a ridiculous last minute request.

At least she had a few hours' grace to clear her room of personal effects and valuables, and ensure that it was serviceable.

She pasted her on brightest smile for Clara. “It's no trouble at all. However, his room won't be ready just yet. Could I have his things transferred to your father's room temporarily?”

Clara's gaze whipped to her father. “Well, if it's OK with you, Daddy?”

Claire braced herself for a tantrum from either one of them, and held her breath. Thankfully, Gerald shrugged. “Fine with me.”

*****

“You're doing fucking what?” Owen demanded of Claire later, when the wedding party had, blissfully, moved out to the marquee.

“I'm not doing it; I've done  it. It's only for one night.”

They faced each other in the quiet confines of the library. Housekeeping had cleared away most of the drinks and canapé debris. Claire had asked for the remaining untouched decanter of wine to be left, and now poured herself a small glass, then offered the decanter to Owen. “Drink?”

He took it wordlessly and snagged a wineglass, dumping the blood-red liquid into it. “You could have come to the cottage. You could have asked. For fuck's sake – I have two bedrooms. But instead you're giving up your own bedrooom – your bedroom – for some last minute photographer.”

“There's a lot riding on this,” Claire reminded him. “And I can survive sleeping on a sofa-bed for one night.”

“I don't give a flying fuck what's riding on it. What I do care about is you bending over practically double  for a woman who won't remember your sacrifices, however big, either way.”

“Oh, she'll remember. And I think you're being a bit melodramatic.”

He gestured with his glass. “Oh, I'm being melodramatic. Fine. Have it your way. Let's hope the pampered princess' big bucks are worth it.” He knew he'd stepped too far. Knew that Claire had worked all her life for this, for the busy churn of an estate, holding its own with other four-star resorts in the country.

Claire got up in his face. “I have truly appreciated your assistance and flexibility today. But you'd do well to understand your place here, Mr Grady. And your place is not Ops Manager.” She poked him in the chest. “Do you understand?”

He scowled at her. “I sure _do_ understand, Boss.”

She was spitting mad. Her eyes were filled with fire and brimstone. Her crimson hair was wild after a day of stress and tromping about. Her cheeks flushed, and she'd kicked off her heels as soon as housekeeping had closed the library door behind them.

To him, she had never looked more powerful; more tempting, more... Claire.

Something snapped in him and he yanked her against him, kissing her without asking permission, without waiting for her approval.

She tasted of red and wine and honey, her lips soft under his. For a long second she held perfectly still, and Owen almost pulled back – if he'd read her wrong, he would apologise, and profusely. 

He didn't force himself on women. Ever.

But then she opened for him, her tongue tentatively sweeping over his, and he dumped the wine glass down on some unseen surface, fisting his hand in her hair, pulling at the elastic band and the pins until her glorious silken tumble fell free, smelling of roses and forbidden fruit.

He knew he had her when she reached up to stroke his cheek, her palm grazed by his stubble. Good. He wanted to mark her; make her his. Wanted her to walk around branded by him.

The thought thrilled him deeply, and he dragged his mouth from hers, dropping kisses down her cheek, over her chin. She tilted her head back to give him access to her neck. Her breathing hitched when he placed the first open-mouthed kiss on the pulse beat under her jaw.

“Oh God,” she moaned.

It was music to Owen's ears. “Say you want this,” he growled against her collarbone, his breath feathering her skin.

She pressed his head closer, her breath hitching. “I-”

“Claire? Claire, are you in there?”

She sprang away from him. Harry Dearing's searching voice carried through the door.

“I'm coming, Dad.” Her gaze shot to his. “I... Sorry. He might need something.”

Owen nodded curtly. He couldn't bring himself to words, not now, not when he knew damned well they'd been seconds from tearing each other to pieces.

And he would have loved every glorious second.

She hurried to the door, glancing back at him. Her hair was everywhere. Her cheeks looked flushed; lips swollen. Anyone with eyes would know what they'd been doing together. And he felt a strange, primal sort of pride about that.

If she thought she'd avoided the reckoning of this passion that bounced between them, she was wrong. It had only been delayed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with this!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit from Karen, and sparks fly between Owen and Claire again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thankyou for reading!
> 
> I don't think I have helped myself by calling the minor bride character Clara. Terrible choice on my part as Clara is so similar to Claire!
> 
> Gerald ; Clara's father  
> Harry : Claire's father.
> 
> Anyway the Taylor family aren't appearing again (I hope!).

 

Much later that evening, around midnight, Claire lay on the sofa in her office, her eyes tightly shut, trying to get herself off to sleep. Trying not to sob - out loud, anyway. Her cheeks were already wet with the tears she had shed silently, her body shaking on the uncomfortable sofa bed under the thick but itchy woven throw.

She regretted offering Clara's photographer her own bedroom, but what else could she have done? The estate needed to make money, and a referral from someone like the influential Taylor family would mean wedding bookings for potentially years to come.

_ When my father can’t run Brynarian anymore. _

_ Although let’s face it. He isn’t running it now. _

He hadn’t been for a long time. He was a figurehead who still saw himself as head of the company, when Claire made more and more of the decisions.

She sighed out shakily, and reached into her bag for her phone. The screen lit up at the touch of her hand, and she opened her contacts, tapping out a message to her sister Karen without even thinking about it.

Her thumb hovered over the “send” button.

Karen had enough on her plate. Her two adorable boys; her impending divorce with her husband Scott. She didn’t need Claire dumping on her about their Dad’s dwindling state of mind.

She saved the message as a draft and closed it.

_ I could text Owen. _

Yes she could. Ask him to come over and make the bad feelings go away. Make her feel warm inside, even temporarily.

But that was something neither of them could come back from. That line, once crossed…. Couldn’t be walked back over.

She let her phone slide back into her bag and turned over on the sofa bed. A rogue spring poked her and she groaned, shifting so it didn’t skewer her quite so much.

Her Dad’s confusion when Owen had followed her out of the library broke her heart. He had asked if Owen was a guest from the wedding. He hadn’t even recognised him. OK, Owen was a recent hire, but it still grated. It was yet another reminder that he was slipping away from her, one day at a time. And she couldn’t ask Zara or another member of staff to watch him twenty-four seven.

She  _ could _ hire a new staffer to be his private assistant, but the budget wouldn’t really allow it, not long term. And how could she justify it? She’d have to tell people about his… condition.

Not that some of them hadn’t already guessed.

Maybe it was time to accept the inevitable.

And do what? Ask him to step down? Only the estate trustees could do that. And she couldn’t in all conscience talk to them without talking to her dad first.

Claire smacked a hand over her eyes, and wondered, not for the first time, just when her life had become so busy, and at the same, so lonely.

Another tear leaked out from between her closed fingers.

Although it was far from the first time she’d bunked in her office, sleep was a very long time coming.

***

 

After another shitty All Hands meeting a few days later, where Victor practically spoke over her at every opportunity, Claire was in no mood to see anyone. She holed herself up in her office, stabbing angrily at her keyboard, typing out the copy for the new 2018 Brynarian wedding brochure. It wouldn’t be long before she had the photos from the Tobacco Princess’ wedding to send over to the graphic designers.

“What did those keys ever do to you?”

Claire looked up and her eyebrows shot into her hairline at Karen standing in the doorway. She stood up, shoving her chair back. “Karen!”

Karen rounded her sister’s desk and the two women embraced enthusiastically. 

“How are you?” Claire asked, stepping back to properly look at her sister. Karen looked tired. Her blonde hair had been straightened and she wore make-up, but she looked  _ deep _ tired - emotionally tired, rather than straightforward  _ lack of sleep _ tired.

“Ugh.” Karen dropped into Claire’s cushy visitor chair (nicer than her own office chair). “Let’s talk about you instead.”

“No,  _ let’s talk about you,” _ Claire insisted, moving to the espresso machine in her office. She programmed two lattes, set mugs into the slots and sat in her own chair. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

Karen tilted her head. “I had a feeling you might need someone to talk to.”

Claire smiled self-consciously. She and Karen had always had this connection; this uncanny ability.

“Do you?” Karen prodded.

“Nuh-uh. You first.”

Karen stuck her tongue out briefly, but then her shoulders caved. “It’s the divorce paperwork.”

Claire’s mouth dropped open. “Wait. It’s happening now?”

“It is happening.”

The coffee maker signalled its end and Claire fetched the two mugs, sliding one across her desk to Karen.

“Thanks,” her sister continued; “And Scott’s sort of being an ass about it.”

“There are things he isn’t an ass about?”

Karen laughed dryly and Claire smiled slightly; she missed her sister’s laugh. “Believe it or not, there are reasons I married him… can’t think of any right now, though.” Karen’s smile dropped. “It’s not about me. I mean, I don’t really care what happens to me. But I don’t want his shitty treatment of  _ me _ to rub off on Zach and Gray.”

Claire wrapped her hands around her mug. “Why don’t you come here? All 3 of you, I mean. For a long weekend. I can clear one of the cottages for you guys.”

Sipping her latte, Karen nodded thoughtfully. “Yes. Why not. That would be nice. Scott gets to do enough nice things with them, after all. I need to be Fun Mum again. That is, if I ever held that position.” Her brow creased. “How’s Dad?”

Taking a breath, Claire studied her sister’s already weary expression and pursed her lips. “He’s…. Doing okay.”

“Is he though?”

“Karen. As if you need more on your plate right now. It’s OK. He’s OK.”

Claire’s office phone buzzed and she looked at the readout on the little screen. “Oh it’s Zara. I should really get this.”

Karen levelled her a look that said their conversation was far from over.

***

The next day, Claire stood in her office compiling a master list of all the things that had been reported missing from various locations on the estate. It looked like quite the issue when the items were all put together. None of them were expensive - just small things. No big tickets items. If the guests weren’t taking them, who was? And to what end?

She supposed they could be doing it for a thrill - but who stole Travel Scrabble, a rugby ball, and a single fork (among other things) for thrills?

_ Someone married to their job, _ she thought glumly, thinking of her own piss-poor personal life.

“Knock knock.”

She raised her head. Owen Grady stood in the doorway. The doors in the main building were wide, but even so, he dominated the space. His hair looked ruffled, as if he’d been out in the wind. The hot weather had finally broken and this morning it looked wild outside. The look suited him, windblown and rugged. The first few buttons of his chambray shirt were undone and she forced herself not to stare at the exposed triangle of his chest.

It took superhuman effort.

“Morning, Mr Grady.”

“I’m having a bit of deja vu here,” he said thoughtfully, crossing the space between them in a few steps. “I thought I told you to call me  _ Owen. _ ”

“You did.” She looked back down at her paperwork, hoping he didn’t know, couldn’t know, how  _ alive _ her skin felt just being near him. “But we have a professional working relationship and it’ll stay that way if we’re more formal.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Did we have a  _ professional, working relationship _ in the library last week?”

She took a deep breath. Of course he would bring that up. “Can we not talk about that?”

“You would love that, wouldn’t you?” He got right up in her face, and Claire was very glad of the grey suede heels that brought their faces nearly level. 

“I would, and since I do rank higher than you-”

“You’d be lowering yourself by dallying with the stable boy? Gee, thanks for making that clear.”

Her face flushed, ashamed that Owen would think she thought him beneath her. “That is  _ not _ what I meant.”

He backed off. She was sorry for it, immediately feeling the loss of his body heat.

“Oh I know what you  _meant,_ ” he drawled. 

They stared at each other for a moment. 

“I’m good enough to help you out of a tight spot but not good enough to touch you, is that it?”

Real distress tornadoed inside her. “That is not it at all. Just let me explain, will you-”

“I think I’ve heard enough.” He turned on his heel to go. 

Claire’s stomach lurched. She had tried to keep all the pieces of her life in neat little compartments - it made dealing with her father’s illness and her manic job easier - but Owen had shouldered his way in and messed it all up, and kissed the hell out of her, and, she realised, she thought the world of him for it.

She did the only thing she could think of. She grabbed his wrist, yanked him back towards her, and kissed him like her life depending on it.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kiss, finally, crossing of swords, and Claire and Karen make plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been AN AGE. I have a 5 month old who demands a lot of attention!
> 
> Thank you for reading. x

Claire had  _ not _ thought this through.

Kissing Owen was like the sledgehammer of kissing. 

He tasted of coffee and just a hint of woodsmoke and she drank him in, sliding her free hand into his hair. He stood stock still against her for a second, and then, like magic, he opened to her. She felt the moment he decided to give in. 

She gasped into his mouth when he yanked her flush against him. The wall of his chest crushed her into his body and she could only buckle in for the ride. Her hand fisted in his hair as he ravaged her mouth, their tongues tangling.

Finally Owen broke the kiss and Claire’s eyes flew open. They stared at each other for a full minute.

A slow smile spread across Owen’s face. “There. Now you look like a woman who’s been properly kissed.”

She scowled. “Your arrogance is breathtaking,” she snapped, hoping he didn’t see that she was almost shaking in the aftermath of kissing him, tasting him,  _ breathing him in. _

They looked at each other again, gazes level.

“So explain,” Owen said into the space between their bodies.

Claire stalked over to her coffee machine, more for something to do than for a caffeine hit. “Coffee?”

“Black. Thanks,” he added, almost as if it was an afterthought. Claire winced internally. He  _ wasn’t _ an arrogant asshole, at least, not all the time. He just got under her skin.

She programmed his coffee and then her own - cream, no sugar - and handed it to him, careful not to let their hands touch.

His raised eyebrow said he knew what she’d been up to.

“I can’t have a relationship,” Claire began. She glanced at her chair, wanting to sit but not wanting to change the level of their bodies. It was about maintaining control. “Things are too… complicated.”

Owen searched her face, and for a painful moment Claire worried that he could see right  _ into  _ her, see her wants and needs, all her private thoughts.

“Because of your Dad.”

She blinked, not knowing why she was surprised. “You know about that.”

“I’d have to be blind not to know about that. He isn’t well, is he?”

“I don’t-”

Owen snarled. “I know. You don’t want to talk about it. But you know what, Princess? At some point you’re going to  _ have to talk about it _ to someone, or else all your carefully constructed palace walls are going to come down. And when they do, who’ll be there to catch you?”

“That’s none of your business,” she bit back, but his barb had hit home, digging into her where she was soft and vulnerable.

“Yeah well, if that’s true, keep your hands off.”

“ _ You _ keep your hands off.”

The stalemate hung in the air until Owen finished his coffee and crumpled the paper cup, tossing it in the trash. “Got shit to do.”

“Wait,” she called as he stalked towards the door.

He turned, a question on his face, under some barely schooled impatience.

“Why did you come to see me? This morning, I mean?”

He hesitated; she saw it cross his handsome features. “Doesn’t matter.”

“I really did appreciate your help yesterday,” she whispered.

Owen held her gaze for a hot second. She thought she saw him incline his head very slightly to acknowledge her words, but she couldn’t be sure. And then he was gone.

She dropped into her office chair, suddenly more tired than she’d ever been, and without a single clue what to do about it.

 

 ***

Claire sat by the lake much later that day, debating whether to go to the gym or not.

Pros: exercise meant endorphins

Cons: she could just go to the main kitchen and cut herself a massive wedge of chocolate fudge cake and eat it alone.

She wasn’t ready to rule out the second one just yet.

A rustle in the grass made her look up, and her eyebrows pinged up when she saw her father. “Dad.” She stood up.

Harry Dearing leant on the railing separating the lake from the grassy hillock. “I didn’t think you knew how to be still.”

She shifted uncomfortably. “There’s a lot to do.”

He eyed her and she got the feeling that behind his sunglasses he was sizing her up. “You don’t have to do it all, you know.”

_ But I do,  _ she almost said out loud, but bit her tongue.

“You seem so sad since Seb went away,” he continued. “You know he’s welcome back here, don’t you?”

She couldn’t bite her tongue past this. “Dad, he ran around on me.”

“Did he?” His brow furrowed. “Im sure he wouldn’t. It’s just… Victor was saying the other day….”

_ That rat bastard. _ Claire said nothing, bile rising in her throat. She was afraid that if she spoke, her words would be to call for Victor’s head on a pike with immediate effect. She was pretty confident that she could find chainsaw somewhere. How hard would they be to operate? 

She thought that a decade in prison was maybe worth seeing that idiot’s head topple off his shoulders.

“Victor said what?” she asked, breathing in deeply.

Harry startled, as if she had spoken the words out of nowhere rather than in response to a question. “What, darling? What were we talking about?”

Tension coiled in Claire and sympathy and love for her father overrode it. She took his arm. “Why don’t you come inside? I’m pretty sure it’s time for dinner, isn’t it?”

 

 ***

Claire decided to forgo both the severing of Victor’s head and the chocolate cake and video call Karen instead. She flopped on the bed and pressed the CALL button, and when Karen picked up she nearly vomited with relief. Her other stress-relief options had been the gym (where she’d been likely to punch a hole in one of the walls) or Owen. And she couldn’t go there.

“Hey, sis.”

“Hey. Kids in bed?”

“Yeah. Are they asleep? Hell, no. Do I care? This once, they can laugh it up,” Karen sighed. “At this point as long as they don’t set fire to anything, we’re good.”

The sisters laughed together.

“You okay?” Karen asked. “You don’t normally call this late.”

Claire shoved a hand through her hair. Opening up didn’t come easy to her, but if there was one person she could be herself with, it had to be Karen.

“Not really.”

“Oh my God,” Karen deadpanned. “You said something personal. Let me get a glass of wine and sit down.”

“Don’t be a bitch,” Claire laughed.

She heard a noise as Karen poured herself a drink anyway. “Go on.”

Claire debated. Tell Karen about their father? Or Owen? Or both?

She plumped for Owen, to begin with. Karen had enough family junk in her lap with Scott and the kids. She was at least separated from the Owen thing.

If only Claire could say the same.

She ran Karen through recent events and described Owen.

“And I just can’t go there.”

“What if he just wants a bit of mutual no-strings attached fun, you know?” Karen suggested. “What about that? I know, I know,” she said when Claire started to speak. “You married Seb and you don’t want to be tarred with the whole  _ she diddles with the pool boy _ brush. But Jesus, you don’t have to marry him. Just get a few decent orgasms out of him.”

“Karen!”

Her sister laughed. “I’m too jaded to beat around the bush. Unless you think he isn’t up to it.”

“I very much doubt that’s the problem. It would be messy. The problem is, he’s funny. And kind.”

And all the things she really, really liked in a guy. The fact that his kisses were addictive didn’t hurt either.

“Sexy, funny and kind?” Karen asked. “Well hell. If you don’t want him, sign me up for some of that.” She reached for something off screen and then shoved a pocket sized diary towards her camera. “And on that note, you said you wanted some dates for when the boys and I could come up. Do you have a pen?”

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Owen cheers up Claire, and the plot thickens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're still reading this, thank you, thank you!! I write whenever my 7 month old allows....

A week later, the new brochures had been sent off to the printer and the Winter events schedule had been loaded on to the website. Claire had put her head together with Bryanarian's part-time events manager, Kath, and together they had planned everything except one stubborn weekend in November.

Black Friday hadn't been A Thing in the UK until the last few years, when shops here now offered up to 50% discount at a time when lots of people wanted to save a few pounds on their Christmas shopping. There had to be a way to tie it in with a weekend here. Lots of people wanted to escape the shops. Others wanted a chance at bargains but couldn't stand the crush of traffic (or people, for that matter). Claire stared out of her window, drumming her fingers on her desk. It was very hard to think of Christmas and its ilk when the sun beat down outside.

"Boss."

Claire looked up. Victor stood in her doorway. She raised a brow. "You never call me that. What do you want?"

He feigned hurt. "Can I at least come in?"

She nodded, still wary.

He sat in her office chair and spread his legs - had one of her staffers used the term "manspreading" recently? It looked gross. Claire made herself focus on his face. "What can I do for you, Vic?"

"I've got an idea. For the winter schedule. A reindeer run," he started to explain. "Like a Santa run, only the participants wear reindeer outfits."

She considered it briefly. "It’s cute. Go on,” she prompted.

“We could offer reindeer or Christmas themed street food too, around the lake.”

Claire pondered it. “It’s clear you’ve given it a lot of thought. I should say though, we'd be competing directly against the other big estates that do have Santa runs. I'm not sure it'd be a goer, but why don’t you write it up for the meeting?"

Vic shifted, clearly unhappy. "It would bring people in. We could run it on a different day."

"The Santa runs are established events. Parc Glas has been running theirs about three years now, and they always get repeat bookings. It's a good premise, Vic, I mean it, it’s very family friendly, especially with the street food element, but as a festive event I don't think it the trustees would agree to finance it, not with the other estates already holding Santa Runs. I will present it to them at the meeting though, if you write it up."

“Will you? Or will you just say you did?”

She sucked in a breath at his arrogance. “How dare you assume-”

He stood up. "I'll see what Harry has to say about it."

A hot streak running through her suddenly, Claire shot up from her chair. "You're an asshole. You'd use my sick father to get me to agree to run an event you feel like doing that you know won't turn a profit."

"So you admit he's sick!"

Claire swallowed.  _ Shit _ . 

It was maybe the first time she had said the words out loud to anyone, even Karen. "Me admitting he's sick doesn't make you less of an asshole. If you go around me to my father to on this, mark my words, I will make you regret it."

He leaned over the desk to her. "I'd like to see you try. An estate like this needs an experienced man to run it-"

Rage burned in her veins, white hot. "It needs someone with a business head to run it. Unfortunately, yours is up your-"

"Knock, knock."

Claire and Victor turned as one. Claire's heart thumped at seeing Owen in her doorway. His blue gaze seemed to pierce into the very heart of her. 

"Am I interrupting?"

"Hell yes," Victor groused, but Claire spoke over him.

"No. Come in."

He did so, and Claire noticed that while he had swagger, he didn't walk the way Victor did. Vic walked on the ground as if it owed him something.

"We'll finish this later, Victor. I’ll come find you."

He stared at her for a moment, and Claire's stomach bottomed out as she thought he might put up a fight. Instead he muttered, "we will," and left without another word. 

Claire could have sworn the air almost vibrated in his wake.

A few beats passed and Owen shut Claire's office door. "Someone piss in his cornflakes this morning, or what?"

"Me, apparently." She didn't elaborate - Owen didn't need to know, and Claire did need to keep some professionalism around here, even just an air of it. "Can I help you?"

"The other day, when I came to speak to you? I've got an idea. Kath was down at the stables yesterday and we got to chatting. She mentioned a gap in the Winter events programme. I'm aware that the door's hardly closed behind me, but I've got an idea I'd like to run by you. Get your take on it."

It was obviously Christmas idea time at the estate. Had someone put a sign up outside? Claire wondered idly.

"Why don't you sit down?" Claire marvelled that his delivery was so different to Victor's. Owen was clearly in the alpha male category, no question - but he knew how to tow the line when he had to. Knew how to be respectful. This was still her show, he was secretly telling her.

At present her world was chaos, and she appreciated the small lifeline.

Owen sat.

“Coffee?”

“Sure, if you’re having one.”

Programming the machine gave Claire something to do with her hands. She  _ fucking _ hated it when Victor lorded it over her, even - maybe especially - when it was just the two of them.

But sometimes, with Owen, she could relax. Owen didn’t pretend to be anything he wasn’t - what you saw was what you got, and she appreciated it.

She set two coffees, black, in front of each of them and sat. “Go ahead.”

“Well, yesterday a couple came by the stables for a tandem ride, and they were asking if we were running anything for kids - over 5s, it’d have to be, with the horses we’ve got. We don’t have anything right now, and it’s for you to say if it’d work, but how about a Winter package? We could run it at the same time as the craft fayre. Come stay, do your shopping, leave your kid at the stables to play horsie, go have a couple hours off. In the bar.”

Claire snorted, and it turned into a laugh.

Owen grinned. “What? Pretty sure every mom has been thinking about gin at least _ some _ of time she’s baby wrangling. And if you go away, you go for a break, right? You love your kids, but Jesus, could they just go  _ away  _ for five seconds?”

Now Claire did laugh out loud. “You sound like Karen. I like it, Owen. It has merit.”

“I’d need a temporary member of stable staff for the duration.”

“Noted. Okay - write it up. I’ll run it past the trustees at the next meeting, get a feel for if they’ll finance it. Get it to me by the end of the week?”

“Sure thing.” He downed his coffee, then threw her that lazy little salute she was getting pretty fond of. “Catch you later.”

He headed to the door, and she watched his backside surreptitiously, pretending to focus on her computer screen.

“On, and Claire?”

Her gaze shot to his, wondering if he’d felt her checking him out. God.

“Officially, everyone knows you could wipe the floor with Victor.”

A small smile crept up on her before she even really felt it.  “Unofficially?”

“Unofficially, he deserves a lot worse than a kick up the ass.” He paused, his expression serious now. “Just callin’ it as I see it.”

“It’s appreciated,” she said quietly.

He walked off, just a hint of swagger in his gait, and she chewed over his words. Her heart squeezed as she thought that she might love him, just a tiny bit.

  
***

The following week, Claire sat in the The Perennial, the cafe-cum-bar attached to the main restaurant of the estate. The Chair of Brynarian had asked her for a private meeting before the Trustee Meeting. Alun had been Chair for five years. Claire found him strict but fair, and he had once been uncommonly kind to her when he’d found her crying alone, a week after Seb had run around on her. She’d never forgotten it.

Alun attended the annual general meeting, which wasn’t today, but he recieved all the papers for each All Hands and Trustee meeting, and Claire knew he read them as he often fired her the odd question or comment via email. She appreciated his input - prior to retiring, Alun had run a successful textile manufacturers for over two decades. It was still turning a big profit under the watchful eye of his son.

She tried not to tap her foot with nerves. What did he want? Having studied the papers she had circulated, she thought maybe it was about the events that Owen and Vic had suggested. But what? Cost? Competition?

She eyed the bar area where one of the trainee baristas, Kevin? Kye? Made a perfect flat white under the tutelage of the cafe manager, Janice. She swallowed. Maybe forgoing caffeine had been a mistake. 

“Hey, Claire.”

Janice appeared at her elbow.

“Oh, hi. How are you today?”

Janice smiled the smile that had got her promoted to manager. Everyone had a secret for Janice, because Janice had a kind word for everyone. Rumour had it that she knew the ins and outs of everyone at the estate. Claire had briefly considered asking the other woman to spy on Victor for her, but she’d resisted. It would have looked ridiculous. “I’m fine, thanks. Kye’s doing well. Thanks for stretching to the new hire. The hen parties love him.”

Claire glanced over, looking at the young Kye properly. He wore the Brynarian button-down shirt open at the neck, with the sleeves rolled up to show lightly muscled, tanned forearms. His hair was floppy and dark, sun-kissed blonde. “I’ll bet.”

“Here.” Janice set the flat white Kye had made before Claire. “Thought you might like to try his latest attempt.”

The leaf pattern atop the foam was tempting, Claire thought as she wrapped her hands around the cup. When she sipped, she smiled. “It’s perfect. Thanks, Janice.”

The two women looked over at the new hire as he studiously cleaned the pipes of the coffee machine.

“Do you think he should button his shirt higher?” Janice asked.

Claire laughed. “If the hen parties love it, I don’t see why he can’t leave that top button undone. Of course, you must hate seeing that every day.”

“We all have our burdens to bear,” Janice said solemnly. Claire barely covered a snort.

“Oh, here come some customers,” Janice added. “I’ll see you later.”

On the back of the family who’d come from the lake - judging by the little boy who clutched one of the toy boats they sold from the ice cream shack - entered Alun. He held a sheaf of papers under his arm in one of those leather hold-all folders.

He caught Janice’s eye and made some sort of hand signal that Claire knew would result in a drink coming their way shortly.

“Morning, Claire. How you doing today?”

“Good, good.” She stood and bussed his cheek.

Alun unbuttoned his dark blue suit jacket and sat. “Thanks for seeing me today. I wanted to have your ear for a moment. It’s about your Deputy, Victor.”

Claire bit her cheek to stop from screaming. “Okay.”

“He says there’s been some friction between you two.”

Janice set down a black coffee in front of Alun and he thanked her before she ghosted away.

“There’s truth to that,” Claire admitted. “I think he’s upset because he suggested a reindeer run - a riff on the traditional Santa Runs - and I shot him down. The nearby estates all have established ones.”

“Quite right,” Alun agreed. “On a personal level, and I’m sorry I have to ask you this, but could it have anything to do with our ex-stable manager? I know Seb and Victor were close.”

Claire swallowed. Yeah, her ex-husband and Victor had been good friends. But did they still see each other? She didn’t know and she hadn’t wanted to know. She’d wanted to wipe clean that phase of her life. 

Maybe that had been a mistake.

“What makes you think that?”

“A contact of mine saw them having dinner together last week. I trust you, Claire, you’re a gem. You keep this estate running tighter than anyone I know could, and when you came to me last year with concerns about Victor, perhaps I didn’t take you seriously enough. I just wanted you to know that they met, in case it leads to anything.” He sipped his coffee and levelled his gaze at her. “Will you keep me updated?”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claire begins to relinquish control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for anyone who's still reading my ramblings...!

 

On Friday, three days after the meeting, Claire knocked on the door of Owen’s cottage. While she waited, she admired the frontage. He had seen to the upkeep of the little window boxes and the small front lawn. Not that she’d expected any less, but…

But the image of him toiling outside, possibly shirtless, made something coil inside her tightly.

She’d love him to uncoil it for her.

The door swung open. “Hey.”

He looked delicious, she thought miserably. 

If she thought she’d been attracted to Seb…. what she felt for Owen was white-hot compared to what lust she’d had for her ex-husband. One look at Owen made her feel as if she might combust.

“Hey yourself.” She made herself focus on business. 

“Don’t you ever do dress down fridays?”

Claire looked down at her outfit. Maybe the inky blue shirt dress was a bit much for a Friday, especially with the white wedge heels, but… whatever. Heels made her feel powerful, and where else was she going to show her wardrobe off but work?

The thought depressed her.

“No,” she settled for. “I usually have to meet clients. I came to tell you-”

“Beer?”

His question set her off her track. She glanced up. The summer, unusually, was really hammering it home this year, and it was twenty-five degrees. “Thanks. I’d love one.”

He opened the door of the cottage wider. “Come in.”

He’d kept it neat, Claire noted as she walked in. He shut the door behind her, and she had a brief feeling of being a fly in a spider’s web.

She didn’t know if she’d resist if he tried to wrap her up.

“How do you like it here?” she asked as he opened the little fridge.

“It’s good. Quiet. Great views.” He twisted the top off a bottle of Corona and handed it to her.

As she took it, their fingers brushed and she felt the spark all the way up her arm and into… other places.

“You like working with the horses?”

“Sure. They’re good natured.” He opened his own beer and toed the fridge shut. 

Claire’s gaze travelled down his body briefly. The worn jeans hugged his backside in a way that was, frankly, obscene.

Silence stretched between them for a moment. Claire pictured him here, alone of an evening. Did he go out? Who with? Did he have a girlfriend out there, somewhere? She didn’t think so, based on their interlude in the library, but still….

“So, what can I do you for?”

It was a question that implied he knew she was here about work

She was, but for once, Claire wanted to throw caution, her job, and everyone else’s fucking  _ opinion _ out of the window. She wanted to tell Owen that she was here off the clock. Here for him to do with as he wished. Until 8.59am on Monday.

But-

“The trustees loved your addition to the winter events,” she heard herself say. It was easier than asking him to eat her alive. She hadn’t had enough beer for that. Was there enough beer in Wales for that? “I’m adding it to the website on Monday.”

“That’s great.” He took a long pull of the beer. Claire tried not to watch the line of his throat as he swallowed, and she failed. “And my new staff member?”

“Approved - subject to me sitting in on your interviews.”

“Great.”

Another silence threaded around the room.

“Well.” Claire set her half finished beer on the counter with a click. “I’d better be going.”

“You can’t leave that half-finished. It’s Corona.” He looked pained, and she felt a smile creeping up the side of her mouth.

“I don’t mind if you finish it.”

Owen sighed as if she was being boring, which she was. But she was also being…. Safe.

“Come on,” he cajoled. “It’s Friday. It’s after five pm. Can you honestly say that there is something you have to do right now, that someone is sitting waiting for? It’s Happy Hour the world over. Just try and relax.”

Claire slid her smartphone from her pocket and opened her Google Keep task list. It was her oracle. “Well….. I did promise the profit and loss sheets to the Chair by tonight-” 

But then again, Alun was on holiday in the South of France. As of today.

Owen had remembered. “Isn’t be on holiday? Do you really think he’s going to be checking his emails?”

Claire hesitated. Alun was known to be a textbook workaholic. “He probably will be.”

Owen chuckled. The deep sound reverberated through her, making her warm in her secret places. “Of course you think that. You’d be glued to your phone.”

“I wouldn’t.” But she knew he was right.

He plucked the device from her hand. “I’m taking custody of this.” He shoved it into his back pocket.

She gaped at him. “You can’t! I need it!”

He wiggled his eyebrows and downed his beer, setting it away from the edge of the countertop. “Then you’re going to have to come and get it.” And he stepped back, very deliberately, baiting her.

Claire followed, laughing. 

He stepped faster, then she did the same.

She chased him around the little house, skirting around the kitchen. He rounded the sofa and she kicked off her heels without thinking, jumping on to the sofa cushions. Her fingers grazed his shirt before she lost him again, and he yanked open the back door, running into the garden.

She didn’t bother fetching her shoes, but ran into the garden barefoot, the grass soft under her feet, welcoming as a plush carpet. The bright orb of the summer sun hung in the sky, blazing, warming the grass. 

Claire curled her toes for a second, enjoying the day. Enjoying the feel of the sun’s rays warming her face.

_ Enjoying  _ being out of control for once.

The man at the other end of the garden had her connection to work, and unless she wanted to wrestle him to the ground, she had no way of getting it back.

Although if she did wrestle him to the ground, she was willing to bet that work would be the last thing on either of their minds.

“Chicken?” he taunted her. He stood by the old wooden swing. It swayed slightly in the cool afternoon breeze. “It’s almost like you don’t want to work. That’s not the Claire I know. The Claire who works here would want to  _ control  _ the situation.”

She arched a brow. “How do you know I’m not controlling the situation already?”

“Please,” he scoffed. “I’m over here with your phone, and you’re over there. Without it. Unreachable in case of an emergency.”

She hesitated. For a moment all the crises that could be happening right now sped through her mind. What if-

Then she heard the tell-tale tune of her ringtone from Owen’s pocket, and she made her mind up.

She ran over to the end of the garden and tackled him.

They fell to the ground in a tangle of laughter, breathlessness, and entwined limbs. Owen rolled and she rolled with him, over and over on the sun-kissed grass. Finally, Claire manuevered herself on top of him and grabbed his arms, pinning them above his head, handcuff style.

She glared down at him defiantly. “Give it to me.”

“Oh, I'll give it to you.”

“Funny.” He was all swagger and arrogance, cocky southern charm with just an edge of danger, of power, and my God, she wanted him more than she wanted her next breath. “You know what I'm talking about.”

His mood changed, and somehow he managed to free one of his hands to stroke a stray curl of hair back behind her ear, where it belonged. “We're not in a position to do anything much like talking. Are we.”

She shifted, suddenly aware of the heat of him, all muscle and strength. And the delicious sensation of him, hard and heavy, between her legs. Layers of clothing separated them, but Claire would swear she could feel every curve and angle of that gorgeous body beneath her. “We will be if you just give me back my phone.” It started to ring again and she tried to reach around him for it. “Owen-!”

“Not so fast.” In a heartbeat, he flipped her over on to her back, and now he was he who pinned her hands above her head. “You do not get to be in control here,” he whispered.

“Maybe I don't want to be in control this time,” she whispered back, lost in his sea-green eyes, wanting nothing more than to drown in this moment.

Owen dragged his mouth down to hers for a kiss, just a brush of lips at first, then more insistent, until she opened for him, and he dipped his tongue inside. His stubble grazed her, marking her, she thought dazedly. Making her his. The thought turned her on and her hips arched into his of their own volition.

“Jesus, Claire. You're killing me.”

They gazed at each other for a moment, and Claire had the oddest sense that he was waiting for permission. Asking her silently. Owen Grady, a man who never hesitated, was waiting for her to say he could ravish her. She knew instinctively that he wouldn't move again until she asked him.

The thought touched her, unbearably sweet.

“Claire?”

They both jolted at the loud shout of her name from somewhere beyond the house. Claire scrambled out from under him, smoothing her hair, stumbling to her knees just as the side gate to the garden opened and Zara appeared.

Her assistant looked between them. Claire only dreaded to think what assumptions her staff member must be making right now. To her credit, Zara just said: “Claire, I've been trying to call you.  I need you at reception.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our favourite would-be lovers get some more alone time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A massive thank you to everyone still sticking with this. It's becoming far longer than I expected. I'm building up to some sexytimes.....

Claire spared Owen a cutting glare. “What's happened?” She got to her feet, hoping she didn't have grass and God knew what else in her hair. Lord only knew how her outfit looked. She patted her hair. It seemed to have fallen out of its bun. Drat.

“A couple have turned up to stay in cottage three – but it's already booked.”

“What?” Claire tried to think over the buzzing in her head, over the arousal still making her blood lazy and sluggish. Owen stood beside her, smelling so damn good, and she swallowed back the lust that threatened to fog her brain totally.

Zara frowned. “They said your father booked them in.” She hesitated. “But he didn't put them on the system, so we didn't know...”

“Bloody hell. Why on earth would he – I mean, how did - _never_ _mind_. I'll be right there.” She rushed towards her assistant, her mind churning, and Owen grabbed her hand.

“They can stay here.”

She gaped at him. “Are you crazy? You live here! Had you forgotten?”

“I'm not crazy.... Not if your paying guests need somewhere to bunk. In the time it takes for you to talk  the talk, smile, get one of the fancy gift baskets - maybe  _ two _ baskets ... and wine... tell them there's been a slight mix-up, I'll have changed the sheets and done the dishes.”

Claire's mind raced. Shit. He was right.

“He's right,” Zara said, quite unhelpfully.

“You're sure?” She did look at him now, properly. How could he be so calm, when she'd been a second, a split second away from giving him total control? He hadn't even broken a sweat, for God's sake. Did nothing rile him?

“I'm sure. I'll bunk with you.” His hand tightened on hers, a smile tugging at the corner of a mouth made for sin.

She removed her fingers. “You're delusional. You'll stay in one of the guests room. I'll have the housekeeper see to it that one is made up. And.... thank you, Mr Grady.”

“Its  _ Owen _ ,” she heard him mutter, annoyed, as she followed Zara out of the garden and back to her car her assistant had driven down.

“He can bunk with me,” the younger woman whispered as they got into the car. She was fanning herself.

Claire didn't look at her. “I'll pretend I didn't hear that.”

  
  


****

 

Owen woke early in one of the neat-as-a-pin guest rooms, after falling into bed with a hard-on that hadn't quit all night. The summer sunlight slanted in through a gap in the heavyweight curtains and he threw a hand over his eyes to block it out.

He breakfasted early, and, he had to admit, with a mind to avoid Claire, he gave Sarah and Meymuna the relatively nicer job of cleaning out Aladdin and Seren's hooves, and took on the stable mucking himself, shrugging out of his chambray shirt when the exertion made his skin slick with sweat. The sun, already hot at 8am, didn't help.

For his handful of years in the UK, the summer had been half-hearted, but this year, it was hotter than the seventh circle of hell, making up for all those rainy days.

When he heard a car pull up and saw a pair of long legs swing from the door, he cursed under his breath. He really was in no state to see Claire, especially after their heated exchange in the garden yesterday. 

He'd left the main house early to avoid her, and he expected she knew that. Damn woman knew everything.

Her heels ate up the gravel between them and he looked up when her shadow fell over him, knowing full well that he was filthy and probably smelled. Pretty bad.

“Morning.”

“Morning, Mr. Grady.”

“Formal today, huh.” He went back to his work.

Claire cleared her throat. He noticed that her skin had flushed. She was affected. Good.

“I wanted to thank you properly for yesterday. You.. helped me out of a very tight spot there. Because of you, there are two happy guests, and... well, everything's rosy.” She paused, seeming to cast around for words. “I… Really, I couldn't have done it without you.”

“You're welcome.” She seemed so earnest, he had to let her off the hook. And really, it had been no trouble to sleep in a feather-soft bed in the fancy guest room. The trouble had been imagining Claire, only a few walls away, and wishing he could search for her. He knew she lived with her father in the big house.

He’d gotten out of bed a few times, intent on wandering the halls for her, and had then cursed himself. He was no lovesick schoolkid.

No, rather, he felt like a lowly Heathcliff, pining after a lofty Cathy, yet unable to get close.

But he was close now, wasn't he?

She stood before him, not a hair out of place, and he imagined how she must look in the boardroom – stern, capable. He knew she was both those things, without a doubt, but he preferred her as she'd been yesterday, hair akimbo, cheeks rosy. Laughing with him, her body bowing against his in the best prelude to sex he'd experienced in a long time.

His body tightened and he looked down at the shit he'd been shovelling to take his mind off Claire and the things he could do to her.

The manure stank, and it temporarily cooled him off.

“I'd like to, ah, offer you something from the estate to thank you for essentially giving up your home for a few nights.”

He didn't want anything she could give “on behalf of the estate.” “No thanks.”

Surprise danced over her features. “What do you mean “no thanks?” You don't even know what I'm offering.”

He flicked her a glance. “I know I don't want it.”

“You certainly deserve to be rewarded for what you did. Brynarian is-”

“I did it for  _ you _ , okay?” He smacked the shovel into the ground and leant on it, looking up into her pale brown eyes, seeing himself reflected in their unfathomable depths. “I didn't do it for the good of the estate. I did it to fucking help  _ you _ . Just you, Claire. Okay?”

For a few seconds she was stunned into silence. He watched her swallow, an uneasy expression passing over her face. “Thank you. I really do appreciate it.”

He bided his time for a second, and then curiosity got the better for him. “What were you going to offer me?”

“I thought you didn't want it.”

“What can I say. I'm curious.”

She folded her arms over her chest. “A taster menu from the head chef, a seat in the kitchen where the action happens, plus a bottle of our finest red wine.”

“For two?”

“Excuse me? No, why would it be for two?”

Owen leaned the shovel against the wall and took two steps towards her. He was close enough to see the little flecks of gold in her irises; they were fascinating. She smelled faintly of rosemary. It was heady. He wondered if her skin tasted of the scent, too. “What's the point of all that food and no one to enjoy it with?”

That caught her off balance. He thought something like jealousy flashed over her face. “All right, well, you've got a point. You're right, even an exquisite meal alone would be... crummy. I’m sorry - I wasn't thinking. In light of what you did, I’ll go and ask the chef if you can bring someone with you, a date, maybe...”

He could tell she struggled over the words  _ a date _ and if being pleased about that made him petty, well, then, colour him petty. All over.

“Have dinner with me instead.”

She stopped partway through her sentence. “Owen.”

“So. You do know my name.”

She frowned. “Don’t get cute with me. I can’t have dinner there with you. How would it look if we were seen to be… fraternising, it’s unprofessional.”

That irked him, but he couldn’t argue, not with Vic apparently breathing down her throat, waiting for her to make one wrong step. “Then don’t. I mean, I’ll cook.  For both of us. In the cottage.”

She hesitated, drawing her bottom lip between her teeth. Jesus, it made him think about sex, just enough to throw him off his stride slightly. He tried not to let it show. “One dinner, Claire. It’s not a marriage proposal.”

Her gaze met his again and he saw determination in her eyes. “Then we’ll be square after yesterday?”

They were far from square and they both knew it. “Yeah. Then it’s quits.”

“Fine. I accept. The couple vacate your cottage on Thursday morning.”

“Friday night then?”

He saw her almost waver and rethink it. But he knew Claire more than a little by now. She was not by any means the type of renege on a deal, no matter what it cost her, personally or professionally.  “See you then.”

She turned and headed back towards the car, and didn’t look back as him as some women might, didn’t flick her hair – nothing.

Owen could almost believe that she wasn’t affected by him one bit.

Except he’d been in that garden with her yesterday. She was affected all right, as affected and riled as he'd made her in the library, and if he got his way, he’d poke a few more holes in her defence on Friday.

 

***

 

Owen didn't really cook – not proper sit down meals. He was adept at one-pot affairs; stews, casseroles and the like. And, if he did say so himself, he did a mean rare steak complete with handcut chips.

For Claire's arrival however, he wanted something a little.. more.

He cracked open one of the two cookbooks his mother had gifted him upon his announcement that he was leaving Kentucky for adventures further afield. Their colourful pages stared up at him, inviting, but also unquestionably a challenge.

He settled for a classic – roast chicken with herby new potato mash and a side of honey-glazed carrots. The pictures made it look easy, but Owen knew better than to believe in the promise of good lighting and glossy photos. He remembered his mother's words.  _ The best advice I can give you is to read the recipe through at least twice. _

Grinning, he did so, imagining his mom's face if he told her he was preparing a roasted chicken for a woman. A woman he liked, no less.

As tempting as it was to text his mom and give her the news she'd waited near a decade for, he didn't pick up the phone. No sense in opening a can of worms right now. He had carrots to peel, besides.

He worked methodically, enjoying himself. Pushed two halves of a lemon into the chicken cavity, shoved bunches of parsley and thyme in after them. Trussed the legs up, smoothed thyme-infused olive oil over the bird, and slid it into the oven.

He tidied the little cottage until it was what he considered “man clean” - probably not magazine worthy, but perfectly OK for guests. He didn’t think himself a fussy man,  but thanks to his mom, he couldn’t leave mess lying around. He smiled to himself, thinking of how she’d pinch his ear as a kid if he left his room cluttered day after day. He soon learned to avoid her iron grip by keeping his toys at least  _ near _ the toy box.

She probably wouldn’t let his advanced age keep her from administering a good ear pinch now and again.

When the timer pinged, he opened the oven and popped the carrots and potatoes in. The brief glimpse at the chicken filled the cottage with the aroma of roasting meat and thyme, and Owen thought he’d done pretty well.

Checking the clock, he dashed up to the bedroom he’d claimed - the other was set up  _ very _ loosely as an office, his only PC his ancient laptop - and rifled through his extremely limited wardrobe. He pulled out a button down winter-sky-grey shirt, clean darkwash jeans, and, looking at himself in the mirror, called it good. The scruff some people referred to as a beard was under control today, so he didn’t shave. Besides, he had a slight notion that Claire might dig it.

By the time Claire’s knock - he’d know it was her anywhere, that no-nonsense rap-rap-rap - sounded at the door, he had set out breadsticks with a garlicky dip, laid two places at the small rustic table, and decanted white wine into a glass jug he’d unearthed from the pantry.

He opened the door and just breathed her in.

She wore a navy dress that should have screamed “work,” but the almost lazy slash cut of the neckline and the clingy jersey fabric, sleeveless, instead whispered “let’s play.”

_ Boy _ , did he want to.

The smooth cut of her hair kissed her shoulders, and she wore thong sandals on her feet, toenails painted rebel red.

God, he wanted her more than he wanted to breathe.

“Hey,” he settled for saying, rather than,  _ I’ve made chicken, but how about we have each other for dinner instead? _

“Hey yourself.” Her gaze dipped down his body in an unashamedly appreciative once-over. He didn’t mind a bit. It was quick, he’d have missed it if he’d have blinked, but he’d seen it, and it gave him a boost.

“Come in.”

He closed the door behind her and heard her short intake of breath. He’d managed to pluck a fistful of wildflowers and shove them into a little clay jug he’d found under the sink, for the centre of the table.

The overall effect was very pleasing, and actually, pretty damn intimate.

“It looks beautiful, Owen,” she said softly.

“Southern hospitality at its best.”

She wrapped her arms around herself, and Owen looked at her for a moment, and, just in that second, really  _ saw _ her. She looked as if no one had ever done anything this nice for her in her whole adult life.

And maybe they hadn’t. 

Or, not for a long time.

“You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.” She met his gaze. “I wasn’t expecting….”

“Romance?”

Something like alarm flitted across her face, and he waited for a sharp comeback, or a put down. But instead she just nodded, nervously, like a little girl, and a small crack drove across his heart.

“Sit.” He pulled out a chair, and she folded that slyph-like body into it. “The chicken’s about done, just needs to rest.”

“It smells divine.” Claire leaned back in the chair for a long moment, then took a breadstick and tapped it against her lips. “I can’t remember the last time someone cooked an honest to God roast dinner for me - oh no, I can. When Karen and Scott were still together.”

“Your sister?” Owen poured wine into the two glasses.

“Yes. She has two boys, Zach and Gray. They’re coming to stay soon - in one of the cottages, in fact.”

Owen opened the oven, checked the carrots. They could do with a few minutes, so he took the chicken out and lay it to rest on the stone trivet that had come with the cottage. The small kitchen was equipped with every damn thing, right down to an egg slicer and an apple corer. Little comforts like that, he was learning, was what Bryanarian did as well as any five star all-inclusive hotel.

He watched out of the corner of his eye as Claire nibbled on the breadstick with those soft, rosy lips.

“How old?” he asked, to stop himself for imagining the myriad other uses for her lips.

“Eight and twelve. They’re like men already. It’s pretty scary.”

He started to carve the chicken into a dish. “I remember that age. Wanting to do it all like an adult, not really recognising the fact that you can’t.”

She sent him a smile. “You were a little tearaway, I bet.”

“The  _ worst _ . My mom despaired of me. Still does.”

“Siblings?”

“One long suffering brother.”

***

Claire watched him work, using his hands with easy grace to carve the meat. It looked tender enough to fall off the bone, and her stomach growled painfully. When was the last time she had eaten,  _ really _ eaten? And enjoyed it, not just used food for fuel as she marched around Bryanarian getting shit done?

Karen had said once that in the early days, she and Scott would retire to bed for the weekend with a tray of food and not get up for anything. Just food and sex, for forty-eight hours.

One thing Claire had never really had with Seb - that laziness.

She hadn’t really thought that she might be missing anything… until now.

Owen set the chicken he’d carved on to a beautiful slate serving plate, and wondered what his brother was like. God, one of them was enough to contend with. “Claire?”

She jerked back to reality. “Sorry?”

“You okay? You kinda zoned out there.”

He would laugh his head off if he knew where her mind had gone. She reached for the wine to give her hands something to do. “Sorry. Long day. It’s the big finance meeting tomorrow. Profit and loss and all the fun that comes with it”

Chicken carved, Owen opened the oven again and slid out the carrots, parsnips and potatoes. Delicious steam wafted towards Claire and she breathed in hungrily. Who knew that a man who could cook would be such a turn-on?

Seb had his way in the kitchen, but with him it was always fancy. Lamb with a reduced redcurrant jus. Porcini risotto with vine leaf puree. Of course, his food was some of the best she’d ever tasted, but-

No man had ever just made her this simple, warm-hearted home fare. It was…..refreshing.

Rather like Owen himself.

“Tomorrow, huh?” He plated the vegetables. “I swear it takes you a day just to  _ print _ the paperwork for those damn meetings.”

And just thinking about it gave her a headache. Claire rubbed the spot between her eyebrows. “I think I’d mind a lot less if they actually read half of it. I want to email it all over, but so many of them don’t do PDFs. Honestly, half the time I feel like I’m in an episode of  _ Mad Men. _ ”

Owen set a plate in front of her. Thinly sliced chicken, bathed in caramel-gold gravy, nestled in next to a mound of parsnips, carrots and golden, crisp potatoes.

Her stomach practically sat up and begged.

“This looks….. Divine.”

He sat before his own plate. “Eat up. And no more talk about work. It’s off limits. Nothing else is, though.”

The wine must have worked its way through her system, because Claire felt distinctly light hearted as she replied, “Nothing else?”

He raised a brow. “In the mood to try me?”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I begin what I hope is an epic and long-awaited sex scene for our two lovers. They deserve it!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorrier than you can imagine to split sexytimes into two parts, but I can't get as much done these days with His Babyness teething and crawling etc etc! If you're reading this, thank you!!!
> 
> I hope I got it right about the scones. I asked an American!

She hadn’t drunk that much yet, so she settled for digging in to her food without a reply. The wine, an oaked chilean chardonnay, was a perfect foil for the meltingly tender poultry.

For a few moments they ate in companionable silence.

“You’re not even going to ask me about my brother?” Owen prompted.

Claire almost choked on her mouthful of wine, and had to cover it with a cough.

“I knew it.” He jabbed his fork in the air in her direction. “You were fantasising about it. Brothers. It’s a gender-equal fantasy. Two of everything appeals, whatever the flavour.”

“I was not fantasising.” Much. She’d save that for later. “What’s his name?”

“Rick.”

“Older, younger?”

“I’m older, by two years.”

She smiled into her wineglass. “And you lorded that over him, I assume?”

“Still do. Every chance I get. What about you and your sister?” He poured a little more wine into her glass. “Close?”

Her answer surprised her in its honesty. “I wish we were closer. Life…. Has a way of getting in the way. And I work too much.”

She waited for him to agree, to make some jab about her living to work rather than the other way around, but he didn’t. It made her uneasy, because it made her like him even more than she feared she already did.

“Have you always lived here?” he asked instead.

“Yes, but it wasn’t …. Always this hard. When my mum was alive.”

“How long since she died?”

Claire eyed him for a second. How like him not to drown her in sympathy. She always hated that. She preferred the direct question. “Nearly eleven years.”

“I’m sorry, Claire.”

Again, she appreciated the kind words, without the saccharine tang of pity to them.

“For a while, I didn’t think my Dad would go on, you know? Now, some days, I wonder if he remembers her at all. I know it’s the illness, not him, but…”

She trailed off, realising that this was the first time she’d spoken so openly about her Dad to anyone. Maybe even Karen.

It surprised her. She and Karen needed to have a talk when her sister came to stay.

“I need to make more time for him,” she added.

“I imagine a place like this eats up most of your time, even if you don’t plan for that,” Owen observed.

Claire nodded, feeling self-conscious. She’d said more to him than she’d wanted, but he was… so easy to talk to. When had that happened?

She couldn’t get involved again, not after Seb. 

But…

Despite her reluctance, it was as if she was pulled by slow increments into his orbit, Io helplessly circling Jupiter, unable and unwilling to break free. Everything about him dragged her closer, made her curious. 

Made her  _ want _ .

Maybe sensing that she needed a bit of space, mental and physical, Owen cleared her plate away. As he did so, Claire noticed that she’d all but picked it clean. Wow. She unconsciously pressed a hand to her stomach. Maybe she was just…. Hungry all the time? She worked so much that she barely had time to eat.

“Dessert?”

Her gaze shot to his. “You made dessert?”

The corner of his mouth quirked up. “ _ Made _ is a very strong word. I stopped by the kitchen and charmed your cook into donating two slices of summer berry tart.”

“I just bet you did.” Lottie was a clever, talented pastry chef. She was also sixty if she was a day, and likely thrilled by the attention of a strapping sex god like Owen.

“Hey, I’m cultivating that relationship so that one day, you and I can eat drank champagne on one of those little rowing boats with a bottle of fizz between us and those fancy British cakes - scones.”

“You don't have them?”

“Ours don’t have raisins in.”

“No raisins," she scoffed. "American food can be pretty weird.”

Owen lifted a brow. “This from the woman who lives in a country where marmite and baked beans in that funky sauce exist.”

“It’s surprisingly good on toast.”

“I’ll pass, thanks.” He bent to the fridge and slid out a slab of slate with two gorgeous pieces of tart laid on it. “I’d rather be eating something like this.”

He set it on the table between them and then turned to get forks.

When she looked at him next he was watching her, an unreadable expression on his face. The room suddenly felt hot, the tension thick.

“You want?” he asked.

She swallowed. She’d have to be an idiot not to realise that his question was loaded with more than an enquiry about the tart.

She wanted it, all right. 

She wanted to eat it off him.

Almost without thinking, she stood up. Her mouth felt dry, her head pleasantly heavy from the wine, the food, the company.

“I do want.”

Whip-fast, Owen rounded the table to stand before her, only a breath away from their faces touching.

She drew in a breath as he cupped her face, stroking the pad of his thumb tenderly over her jaw and up her cheek. His touch sent tiny rivers of sensations flowing inside her, rivers that all led to the same sensitive, aching spot. When his thumb moved to her lips, caressing gently, her mouth seemed to open of its own accord. She heard herself sigh.

“More?” he whispered.

Helpless to do anything but nod, a low gasp escaped her when his lips replaced his hand, and the sweet flavour of him saturated her. He stroked his tongue over hers in a soft, sensual dance, and the rivers of sensations flooded her every sense.

He nipped her bottom lip playfully, and then his kisses moved down, dotting over her chin, down to her neck, where the gentle scrape of his jaw scruff rendered her skin super sensitive. As she giggled, a sound she hadn’t heard herself make for, perhaps, years, he captured her lips again, the kiss so tender that her heart bumped painfully in her chest.

As he returned to kissing her neck, his hand lifted to cup her breast, his thumb finding the already firm point of her nipple and teasing it to hardness through the soft fabric of her jersey dress. She strained towards him, only wanting more, more, more.

“Claire,” he bit out, and her name came off his lips like a curse. 

The sound of her name on his lips, like that, set something loose in Claire. Maybe it was knowing that he seemed as conflicted by this tug-of-war attraction between them as she was, but it was enough.

She slid her hands into his hair, loving the feel of it, soft and thick, between her fingers. She pressed her mouth to his temple as he continued devouring her neck. 

For the first time in - well, longer than she could remember, she stopped thinking about her constant avalanche of meetings and relationship management and finance paperwork. Se let herself stop thinking at all, and started to simply  _  feel. _

It seemed like Owen was going to take charge, and she-

She would let him.

Claire arched into his hand as he used the other to yank her closer to him, closer still. With their bodies pressed together there was no mistaking the hard ridge in his jeans pressed to her lower belly. The heat of it, the want of it, made muscles deep inside her clench, over and over.

“Owen-”

“Bed?” he murmured against her neck.

She fisted a hand in his hair for a moment. A good girl would choose the bed. Upstairs, where people should have sex. Especially first time sex. But Owen had set something loose in her, had released a catch, and she felt... _ bad. _

“No. Couch.”

He bit off something against her neck - curse, maybe. “You’ll be the death of me, Claire Dearing. But what a way to go.”

Almost without warning, he swung her up into his arms as if she weighed hardly a thing, walked them both over to the sofa. When he would have put her down gently on it, she yanked at his lapels until he collapsed on to it, on to her, that long, work-roughened, rangy body pressed deliciously atop hers. She kept hold of his shirt and tugged his face down until their mouths met again, until their tongues tangled. Claire let Owen drink her in and gave as good as she got, savouring every taste, every new texture.

He buried his hands in her hair, and Claire took the opportunity to start on the buttons of his shirt. He’d looked delicious as sin when he’d opened the door to her, the shirt slightly open at the neck, exposing that tempting curve where his neck met his shoulders. His jeans hugged his hips like a lover. She wanted her legs there tonight.

Impatient now, she  tore open the last button and shoved the edges of the shirt aside, feasting on his bare chest with her fingers and palms. When she could bear it no more she broke the kiss and used her eyes, too, allowing herself a visual feast of a body sculpted by hard labour. The planes and angles of his tanned chest didn’t disappoint. This view would live in her fantasies for some time to come.

She pushed the shirt down his shoulders and it fell to the floor.

Owen raised a brow, his expression playful. “Impatient, are we?”

Claire grinned back, feeling light. “I’m simply someone who knows what she wants.”

“And gets it?”

She slid a hand down his naked back to rest on his belt. “What does it look like to you?”

“It sure looks like you’re gonna get it.”

They smiled at each other for a second, perfectly in tune, and Owen dipped his head to press a row of kisses along the column of her neck. She revelled in the tingle of his scruffy jaw against her skin. Dark on light. Spiky on smooth.

Owen paused at the neck of her jersey dress, his lips skating the line where the soft fabric met her skin. She shivered in anticipation.

“Yes?” he asked, so softly she almost thought she’d imagined it. 

“Yes,” she whispered back.

Owen eased down the stretchy neck of her dress, inch by hot inch, his lips following the dark 

Material.

“Faster,” she whispered.

“Oh no,  _ Miss Dearing, _ ” he murmured. “I don’t think you get to be in control here. I’d sure prefer to take my time.”

Was this what it would always been like between them? She wondered. The constant tug of war, the power play?

It a little exciting, a little worrying-

And then he sucked her nipple into his mouth, fabric and all, and she stopped thinking altogether.

The heat of his mouth, the barely-there scrape of his teeth, along with the insistent press of his long, lean body on top of hers, made her back arch. She pressed herself against him, wanting more, more, closer, hotter, harder.

She heard someone insist, “more,” and realised belatedly that it was her.

Owen tugged the neck of her dress - thank Jesus for stretchy jersey - all the way down, flipped open the front clasp of her bra, and tasted her without barriers. The warm friction of his tongue on her hardened nipple made her cry out. Later she would realise that she’d never been this uninhibited with Seb.

He gave similar attention to her other breast, and the tickle of his barely-there beard with the soft stroke of his tongue sent her internal muscles into a frenzy. She bucked against him, wanting more,  _ now. _

“You’re making in damn hard for me to take my time with you,” he groused against the curve of her breast.

“Then don’t.” She clutched at his hair. The length of him pressed up between her legs, hard where she was soft. 

He lifted his head and raised a brow. There was that southern swagger she couldn’t help but lust after. “Is that an order?”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY! All the sex. I hope you enjoy it and that it was worth the wait. Rating upped to explicit.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's stuck with this story.

Owen waited for Claire to respond to his playful question, hoping he hadn’t overdone it, hoping she realised that he was playing. Theirs was a difficult balance, and whilst he did enjoy their sparring, he wanted more to happen tonight than just witty repartee. 

He released a breath in relief when she countered with, “You were never particularly good at following orders, though, were you?”

“I promise I’ll apply myself,” he replied. “But I need this off you. Now.”

“I thought I was giving the orders?”

God, he loved this playful side of her, almost as much as he loved trading barbs.

No, he loved the playful side more.

This was what she could be like if she wasn’t bogged down by the operations of this huge estate, by covering for her father, by fending off the takeover attempts from Vic.

If he had any say in it, she’d get a chance to shine every day. Not just here, where they were alone together. But here was a start.

“Maybe you won’t mind following them, just this once.”

She met his gaze for a hot second, and then she slid her hands between their bodies and grasped the hem of her jersey dress, pulling it up and over her head. Her bra followed, whispering to the floor, instantly forgotten.

She was a goddess on a faded grey couch. Her sunset hair haloed a beautiful face crowned with a mouth made for sin. As she looked at him through eyes half-closed with desire, he thought he’d never had a more perfect moment. Or a more perfect woman.

His heart beat hard in his chest, and he felt uncharacteristically, fearfully, sentimental.

“Claire, I-”

She pressed a gentle hand to his lips. “No talking. No thinking. Just…. This.”

He could see her point. They’d have plenty of time to think about how the barrier of professionalism was just a line in the sand now tomorrow.

“Yes, ma’am.”

He captured her mouth again, delighting in the sweet taste of her, and how easily she gave to him, how easily those walls dropped down. He took a moment to wonder if she’d be all barbed wire tomorrow, but then he pushed those worries aside. They had tonight, and he would make it enough, even if he only had his memories and his right hand forever after.

Claire locked her arms around his neck, and shifted to wrap her legs around his hips. Fuck, he wished he could think away the layers of denim and cotton between him and paradise right now. But he’d said he wanted to take his time, and so he would.

He moved down her body, as much as the couch would allow, taking time to worship her amazing breasts. She pressed into his mouth, letting out that breathy moan he’d never get enough of if he lived be to a hundred.

“Owen,” she sighed.

No -  _ that  _ was the sound he’d never tire of hearing. His name - his first name - falling from her lips like a prayer.

“Claire.” He lifted his head and she met his eyes. “As sure as I’d like to have you on this couch - and anywhere-the-fuck-else you’ll have me, this time, the first time…. We’re gonna need a bed.”

She nodded.

Needing no more encouragement, he stood and scooped her into her arms, delighting in her gasp.

She curled up into him and he swore he felt a crack across his heart. This woman of contradictions, of hard edges and soft kisses, would be the end of him.

“It’s pretty narrow on the stairs,” he warned, and she ducked her head under his chin as he took the stairs as fast as he dared, saying a silent prayer of thanks that he’d thought to roughly make the bed before preparing dinner.

He hadn’t imagined it would ever get this far, but his Ma would’ve been pleased with his attention to housekeeping, even as scant as it was.

The door was ajar and Owen shouldered it open, placing Claire gently on the bed. He wasted no time in divesting himself of jeans, boxers and socks. When he glanced up, Claire had propped herself up on some pillows, naked except for black lace panties -  _ Praise Jesus _ \- and was watching him, like Queen Cleopatra waiting for Anthony, knowing he was her slave in all things.

Normally in this situation he’d have let loose with some quip or another, such as  _ like what you see? _ Or,  _ look all you want, babe. _

But to do so with Claire felt trite. So he just smiled.

She returned the expression, and crooked a finger in invitation.

In that moment, he would have done literally anything she wanted.

 

***

 

Holy hell.

Claire was no novice - she’d had a handful of lovers in her lifetime, including Seb, but Owen…. Owen’s body knocked the other guys out of the park. The whole package of him - his charm, the stubborn good-person streak, his looks - knocked every other guy out of the universe.

She’d like to see those abs replicated in marble.

Claire let her gaze trail down his magnificent torso, over his hips - she wanted her legs around them, pronto. She let herself linger on his mouthwatering erection.

God, why had she waited so long for this?

Owen joined her on the bed and when he got close enough, she pulled him over her, sliding on to her back and wrapping her legs around his hips, slotting the solid length of him right against that sweet spot between her legs.  _ Oh God. _

He rasped her name against her neck as they moved together for moments that seemed to spiral into hours. Claire stroked her hands down Owen’s back, enjoying the play of smooth skin and strong muscles under her fingers. She settled her heels on his calves, letting her head fall back so he could feast on her neck as he moved against her. Settled in the cradle of her hips, the head of his cock pressed against her sensitive folds through the lack of her panties. With each stroke, shivers of pleasure flooded her entire being. She could die happy like this.

“Claire.”

Owen half leaned up. His face contorted with concentration. “If I keep this up, it won’t last long. And I said I was going to take my time.”

He was going to kill her. It was okay. She’d had a good life.

“Owen-”

“Just let me take care of you.”

He said it so softly that she lost the will to respond. She wanted to be taken care of, for the first time in a long time.

Owen moved down her body and hooked his fingers in the edges of her panties. He eased them down her legs, leaving them at her ankles to slide off her thong sandals. They hit the floor, followed by her underwear.

She closed her eyes and let her head fall back on the pillow when he gently parted her legs. She waited for him to settle between them again, but when his tongue touched her, her eyes flew open.

Was he going to-

He licked her in sure, smooth strokes. By the third one, Claire thought her head was going to explode from the pleasure streaming from her clit to every cell in her body. She trembled in delight as he kept the pressure up, knowing just how to stroke that bud of nerves to set her alight.

She sobbed his name as he curled one, then two fingers inside her, hearing his curse when she helplessly clenched her internal muscles around him, wanting, no,  _ needing _ , more, more more. Let it be now-

He flicked just the right spot with the tip of that talented tongue and she came in a burst of light and heat, pressing into his mouth, his name falling from her lips again, like a desperate prayer.

When she came to, he lay next to her, head propped up on his hand, gazing down at her face.

She didn’t have the energy to do anything but smile. She’d come like a freight train, and they both knew it. They both knew she hadn’t known the like of it for years.

And she wanted  _ more. _

Owen reached into a bedside drawer for a condom, and after watching him roll it on to the delicious column of his cock, Claire picked her moment, and lunged for him.

They rolled over the bed - Claire was ever grateful that she’d chosen a king size, not a normal double - and she wrestled her way on top, settling her legs either side of his hips. She looked down at him, impossibly handsome, with just that hint of cocky southern charm, that glint in his eye. She’d never get enough of looking at his face, taut with desire for  _ her -  _ maybe as long as she lived.

She held his gaze as she slowly, slowly, slid down on to him. She saw the moment he felt her close around him - his eyes widened slightly, and he bit off a quiet  _ “Fuck, Claire…” _

Her heart beat a ragged tattoo as she took him in all in, then held still, allowing them both time to enjoy the feel of each other. Owen stroked his hands down her body, then settled them on her hips, squeezing gently. He wanted her to move. 

She obliged him for them both, going slowly at first, the feel of him against her tight walls sending pleasure spiralling through her. When she set a faster pace, wanting to bring him to orgasm knowing it was  _ her _ who got him off, he pistoned his hips up to meet her. She watched something like pain flash over his face.

“Goddammn it, Claire….”

One of his hands left her hips to strum that sweet spot at her apex, and she flew apart, the orgasm slamming into her. A few seconds after, she heard Owen’s raspy cry as he emptied himself into her.

Boneless, she slid down to meet him, chest to chest. His arms curled lazily around her, and she felt her eyes drift closed. The little aftershocks of good - no, _fantastic_ \- sex rocked her insides pleasantly, like late, welcome, fireworks.

“Claire.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “Condom.”

She let him shift her gently off him, and knew cold for a few moments as he went to take care of business. But he came back, and pulled her to him, settling her head under his chin. Claire snuggled into him, quietly delighting in the lazy pound of his heart under her ear.

She dropped into a dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Will the morning after be awkward? Of course it will.....


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The awkward morning after, in which our babies get tortured some more, and Owen finds out a little about Claire's ex-husband.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Husband still has the baby, so I'm bashing it out like there's no tomorrow!!
> 
> Next chapter half written with more sexytimes in store.

Owen woke before Claire. 

At some point in the night he’d scooped her up, pulled back the covers, and snuggled them both beneath them. Claire had barely stirred, only moving to cuddle a bit closer. He’d never have pegged her for a cuddler. She slept almost silently, her chest barely moving.

She must have been fucking exhausted. It made him angry, but he pushed it down for now, determined she’d only know pleasure and comfort from him, at least between these four walls.

He slipped out of bed, pulled on his boxers and went downstairs in search of breakfast. A glance at the clock told him it was just after seven. What would Claire be doing now, on a normal Saturday? Working, probably. 

Damn woman never stopped.

Hadn’t she mentioned a meeting or something? Finance?

Meetings on Saturday. Some people had no sense of fun.

If he had his way, she’d spend today…. Off. Getting off, preferably, he thought , and smiled at his own joke.

He cleared away last night’s dishes, put a pot of coffee on and carried the two mugs upstairs.

When he toed open the bedroom door, Claire was curled on her side. The smell of coffee must have carried, because she blinked, sitting up slowly. When she saw him, she reached out both hands. “Coffee. Praise the God of caffeine.”

“How you feeling?”

She took the cup from him and stretched out of her legs under the covers. Owen had a brief - and very welcome - flashback to how those legs had curled around him last night. “Honestly? I shouldn’t give your ego this much fodder, but, I feel like a new woman.”

“Happy to help.” He sat on the edge of the bed, both hands around his own mug.

He hated to admit it, but he’d never felt this…. Awkward before. Especially not on the morning after. What did they do now? What did he do?

“What time is it?” she asked after her second sip of coffee.

“Nearly eight.”

“Eight!” She sat up in bed, almost bolt straight, and narrowly avoided sloshing coffee over herself. She gulped another swallow down. “I have to go. The finance meeting is at ten.”

Owen took the mug from her and set it on the bedside table. “Meetings on a Saturday. Isn’t there some law against that?”

“No one could make it any other time.” She slid off the bed, and he took a moment to appreciate her really, really excellent ass. She rounded the corner of the bed and picked up her panties and sandals, slipping them on with easy grace.

He could get used to that view of a morning, Owen thought. Too bad this was extremely likely to be a one-time deal.

“You want me to drive you?”

“No, thanks. My car’s down the road a little.”

“Your car’s down-” he lowered his mug a little. “You parked your car down the road so no one would know you were here.”

Something flashed over her face as she headed for the door. “I didn’t want us to get interrupted.”

“Bullshit.” He felt hurt, and it ached like a living thing in his chest. “You didn’t want to be seen with the help.”

“You’re hardly the help, Owen.”

“It’s Owen now? I’m surprised you didn’t start with Mr Grady again.”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be a child.” She left the room before he could form a retort, and he heard her footfalls on the stairs, then rummaging as she, no doubt, found her bra and dress and used them to cover that gorgeous body.

He followed her down the stairs, anger and hurt and desire churning inside him.

She stood in the living area, by the front door, dressed. She’d smoothed her hair, but it still stuck up a bit at the back. If he was petty for being pleased that one small sign of their night still showed, well, then, colour him all kinds of petty.

“Claire….” he felt wrongfooted, standing there in his boxers, while she looked put together, ready to walk away from what he’d felt was an earth-shattering experience last night.

“Thank you for last night,” she said, and it sounded wooden to his ears.

He knew what she was doing. Putting up walls so he wouldn’t hurt her.

Why?

If it killed him, he’d find out. But for now, he would have to let her go.

“I guess I’ll see you round, Boss.” He couldn’t stop himself from adding that small jibe.

She winced, but let herself out of the front door.

It clicked closed. Owen stood there for a few long moments, breathing the scent of her left in the air, and feeling sick to his stomach, already missing her.

 

***

 

He stomped down to the stables, not bothering to take the car. He needed the walk to cool down mentally.

Funny how after all his years of working with horses, it was during the time which he’d known Claire that he most felt like shovelling shit.

Vic was there, speaking with Sarah, one of the stablehands.

Fucking great. The last person Owen wanted to see. He’d hoped to find an empty stables in which to vent his frustration.

“Hey, Owen.” Vic looked up from the clipboard he’d been holding while talking to Sarah.

Sarah’s head popped up, too. “Anything you need, Owen?”

“No, thanks.”

She went off into the tack room, making herself scarce. She hadn’t needed to, but Owen thought it was just as well. He was in no mood to make small talk anyway.

“What’re you doing here, Vic?”

The other man squared his shoulders defensively. “Just checking the schedules with Sarah. You know we need to interview another stablehand for your winter event.”

The words dripped from his mouth like poison. It didn’t take a genius to guess that he’d also submitted an idea for the calendar and been shot down. 

“It’s not  _ my _ event,” Owen replied. “It belongs to the estate. Besides, shouldn’t you be checking the schedule with Claire? She’s the Ops Manager.”

Vic scowled. “Why are you all up her ass? If you’re interested in plowing that field, lemme tell you, you’ll never get over the fence.”

Owen’s hands curled into fists at his sides. To stop himself from punching Vic in the face - and everywhere else - he shoved his hands into his pockets. “Don’t talk about her like that.”

He knew he’d said too much, because the triumph showed in the older man’s face. “You  _ are  _ interested. You know, I saw her car near your place last night. You’d better watch it. You don’t want to end up like Seb. Out of a job because the Ice Princess took offence.”

Owen’s mouth drew into a grim line, even though, to his shame, his curiosity pricked up, ever so slightly. “I’m not interested in gossip. Especially not from you.”

“Is that right.” Vic shoved the clipboard at him, hard, and Owen’s hand shot up to receive it, stopping the metal from hitting him right in the solar plexus. “Have it your way. You arrange the interview slots and email ‘em to me. And don’t forget, it’s your progress review on Tuesday.” He added the last few words with a nasty edge, but Owen stared at him, forcing his face to remain expressionless.

Vic stalked away, and a few moments later, Owen heard the snarl of a car engine. _Good riddance to trash_ , he thought sourly.

Sarah poked her head out of the tack room. “Is he gone?”

Owen turned. “Yeah.”

“What he said about Seb…” Sarah frowned, her young, pretty face caught, obviously deciding what to say. “It isn’t what you think. Claire didn’t do anything wrong.”

“It’s okay.” Owen glanced at the clipboard and barely resisted tossing it to the floor. He’d stay and work out schedules, try and ease off some of the temper Vic’s visit had brought on. “You don’t need to tell me anything.”

He’d find out himself. Damn woman was going to kill him.

 

****

The only thing that got Claire through the godawful finance meeting was the knowledge that Karen and the boys would arrive on Wednesday.

What the  _ hell _ had she been thinking?

She hadn’t been thinking. She’d been looking at Owen and his stupid sexy face and his bottomless eyes and his kind smile, and he’d made her dinner and been  _ nice _ , and God, she’d wanted to come first, once.

A smile touched her lips. She had come first. Owen would be proud of her little joke.

If he didn’t hate her after she’d walked out without so much as a “cheers for the amazing sex.”

She shuffled some papers and gave a lacklustre report on the profits from the boating lake, up by 2% this quarter.

One of the trustees made some comment about increasing the order from the ice cream supplier, or making it in-house, and for the first time, some small part of Claire thought:  _ I don’t care. _

She wanted to be back in Owen’s bed, wrapped in his arms, pulled against the warm wall of his chest, covered in his comforting scent.

Not stuck here in a stuffy boardroom, on a bloody  _ Saturday,  _ looking at spreadsheets. Why had she agreed to a meeting on a weekend,  anyway?

_ Because you usually work weekends, stupid. _

At what point had she sacrificed her life for this estate? For this job?

And what did she now stand to lose because of it?

Without thinking, she stood up.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out to the table of trustees and area managers, who looked at her blankly. Claire hadn’t interrupted a meeting since - perhaps ever. “Emergency. I.. I’ve got to go.” She motioned to her assistant. “Zara has extra copies of the documents for the other agenda items, if needed.”

Her feet carried her out of the room.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of truth for both Owen and Claire during a lakeside encounter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're still here, THANK YOU! I have a one year old and I started work again in September so life has been rather full on, but I still love this tale.

In the end, after  _ much _ prevarication, Claire talked herself out of going to find Owen after she left the meeting, feeling foolish. 

What was her end goal here? Another failed marriage? What a success she was becoming in love, she thought bitterly.

Although somehow, she couldn’t see Owen cheating on her. If Owen wanted to end it, he’d do it to her face.

End it? She scoffed at herself. As if they really had  _ anything  _ to end.

Deciding instead to put her sudden free time to good use, she changed into workout gear and hit the gym. 

The relentless forty minute run she subjected herself to do did nothing to ease the fresh memories of her debauched night with Owen. A night, she had to admit, she’d give almost anything to repeat.

Because she wanted it so much, she forced herself to respond to enquiry emails. One for another wedding - potentially very lucrative - another for filming by the lake from the BBC. Both could generate some excellent PR, and she - grudgingly - sent memos about them to Vic to ensure full brochures were sent out to the enquirers along with vouchers to tempt them into the estate.

She hated delegating to him and hated knowing that she hated it.

He and Seb had been thick as thieves, and the reminder from Alun that the two had been seen together grated on her. Why? What could Seb possibly have to gain? She’d thought he was gone from her life, but now had to revisit the possibility that he might return.

Finally, at five, when the gates to day visitors to the estate closed, Claire gave up trying to divert herself, and admitted defeat.

She needed to see Owen, and if he didn’t want to see her, she at least needed to apologise for leaving the way she had. She cringed when she thought of how she’d left things between them. Her mother would have called it a knee-jerk reaction.

Claire bit her lip at the thought of her mother. She missed her, most days, more when she thought about it. Infact, a whole hell of a lot if she thought about it. The backs of her eyes burned and she swallowed the pain away.

She grabbed the first thing she touched in her wardrobe - a thin dove grey jumpsuit with a peter pan collar, one of her favourite off-duty pieces. She paired it with wedges, chucked on a little white jacket, and caught a ride halfway to the lake on one of the gardener’s carts.

It had rained heavily earlier in the day, but the clouds had cleared, leaving crisp, balmy air in its wake. Claire had intended to walk from the lake to the stables, but as she cut around the boating area, she spotted Owen walking towards her. His face had a determined set to it, and it didn’t look as if he’d seen her. Swallowing her pride, Claire changed direction, meeting him by the tall trees that overlooked the still, clear lake.

A pale green t-shirt hugged his muscular torso, and the black jeans slung low on his hips made her think of last night. Of the moves she’d known he would have.

She swallowed away the sudden lust pooling in the mouth, dismissed the burn low in her body at the very fresh memory of his hard caresses, his surprisingly soft touch. 

How he’d spoken to her, with her, without words.

She opened her mouth to address him formally, then hesitated. Could they be formal now? Wouldn’t it seem ridiculous?

God, why hadn’t she  _ just _ driven home after dessert? 

She hated him.

She hated herself.

“Owen,” she called out to him.

He turned slightly and stopped in his tracks. She watched a series of expressions parade over his face. Finally something like a scowl - his traditional expression, before they’d become really, very personal, settled there as he stalked towards her.

“What can I do you for?”

The question was flippant and casual, but the look in his eyes told her he was feeling anything but.

Uncomfortable, Claire folded her arms in front of her. “I came to… I’m sorry about…. Before.”

He stared at her for a moment. “You’re  _ sorry? _ ”

Claire furrowed her brow. “Yes. I came to apologise.”

He shook his head and she could almost hear him thinking  _ damn woman. _ “Well, I sure as hell don’t accept your apology. Last night was exactly what you needed, and you know it.”

She’d been prepared to take some heat, but him telling her what she  _ needed _ rubbed her the wrong way. “Excuse me? We hardly know each other-”

“Ah, pretty sure last night changed that.”

“-So don’t pretend you know what I need,” she finished, infuriated. Why did he irk her so much? Why did they have to fuck or fight? Wasn’t there some middle ground?

“Ain’t no chance of that,” Owen scoffed. He advanced towards her and she automatically stepped backwards, annoyed at herself for it. “You barely know what you need yourself.”

“How dare- You’re an asshole.” Apology be damned. She wasn’t giving any quarter to  _ this _ Owen. 

“You didn’t think that last night.”

“I’m  _ re _ thinking it.”

Bristling, arguing, they continued trading barbs until he'd backed her almost into the huge oak tree that dominated the east side of the lake.

She squared her shoulders and dashed his away with a gesture. “Get out of the way. I’ll come by when you’re in a more…. Reasonable mood.”

He didn’t budge. “Scared of your feelings?”

She shoved at him. “As if you’d know anything about feelings.”

His gaze pinned her to her spot. “I'm betting you're scared as all hell right now. Where's your spreadsheet for this situation?” he demanded. 

He was so close that Claire could breathe him in – all clean sweat, sweet hay, and the crisp, leftover scent of his aftershave that cut right through the air. The combination packed a punch right into her chest.

She could almost feel the tree bark on her back, through the thin jumpsuit she wore. She cleared her throat, determined to remain in control. “I never needed to plan for this eventuality.”

His eyes searched hers for a long moment. The colour of his irises fascinated her – the calm green of a forest lake, shot through with cloud grey. “Yeah? What eventuality could someone like you possibly fail to plan for?”

“Being alone with you. Like this. Like… last night. Because…” Her voice faltered. She’d just go for the truth. “I never intended for it to happen.”

And that  _ was _ the blad, honest truth - she had never intended  _ him  _ to happen – but someone like Owen was an unstoppable force. You didn't avoid him – you just buckled in for the ride.

Owen advanced on her very slightly. Enough to force her to move back. The tree bark dug into her shoulders, the sharpness heightening her senses. “Why? You think I don't get it. I get it, all right. Because you're the heir to the throne and I'm just the lowly stablehand?”

They both knew he was more than that. So much more. 

Claire sucked in a breath. She had trouble keeping her calm around this man. A wild current flowed under his seemingly steady surface, and wasn’t it tempting to jump in?

But then, she didn't want to, Claire reminded herself. She did not mix business and pleasure. Not now. She'd taken that risk before – and look where that had landed her. 

All but divorced, and then newly married – to her job.

“Don't be ridiculous,” she snapped. “It's not like that.”

“It's exactly like that,” Owen countered, a deeper gruffness edging into his southern accent, as it always did when he got riled.

There was something dangerous about him when his cool wavered. When something splintered and he lost that cocky, sauntering air he always held, never raising his voice. 

“You swan around here in your stupid shoes and the too-hot suit that you probably can't breathe in. You take on far more work than you can handle, and you won't delegate, because you feel you have something to prove by working until you fall over.”

He was so close that if Claire wanted to, she could pull him into her, feel his breath mingle with hers. She could kiss him. Run her hands over his face and feel his stubble graze her palms.

And God, she did want to. Maybe even more than she wanted to take her next breath, she wanted him.

If she’d thought that sex with him last night would cure her hunger, she’d been dead wrong. A taste of him had simply given her an unquenchable appetite.

“You don't know what you're talking about,” she hissed instead. Her legs faltered a little. The tree's girth was huge and unless she side-stepped, she found herself stuck between the proverbial rock and a hard place.

“You think I don't see? That I don't notice that your father's sick? That that son of a bitch Victor is trying to elbow you out of the way, and on top of it all, you're bone-deep miserable? I honest to God don't know you get get through the day.”

Claire folded her arms again – there was just about room without touching him. And as much as she did want to touch him, right now she daren't. Anger vibrated off him in palpable waves. She knew how he felt.

“And just how have you come to the conclusion that I'm so miserable?”

Behind him, the sun made a slow descent towards the horizon. The soft light flickered over them both, bathing Owen in light and shadows. Up close, he always looked better than her memory served, and Claire swallowed, anxiety and need churning in her stomach. She hadn't been this messed up over a man since..... 

Ever.

“Because, until last night, you never, never relinquished control,” he whispered. That honey-on-bourbon voice sliced right through her, almost bringing her to her knees. Those words promised things. 

Things that he would do to her that would leave her legs wobbly for a week. Things that would make her scream his name loud enough for the whole estate to hear.

_ Things I don't want to happen again, _ she told herself.

Birds cried out in the distance, signalling the evening. Beyond them, dragonflies caused tiny ripples on the surface of the lake.

It was early evening and this area of the estate was empty. They had only the wildlife and the encroaching sunset for company.

“And if I don't want anyone else to be in control?”

His gaze never left hers. “Then you miss all kinds of things.” He smirked, the traditional cocky grin she'd become used to sliding back into place. “Like fun. Like...” touching her for the first time since they'd started to argue, he stroked a finger down her collarbone to her navel, stopping at her jumpsuit’s prim little belt. His touch sparked a trail of heat inside her, every cell in her body coming alive, sitting up and begging for attention.

She tried to shut it down, and failed.

Her body wanted what he’d given her last night.

“Like what we could do together,” he finished. His words were so soft that she almost didn't catch them on the gentle, late summer breeze.

It was futile, and a bit sad, but she decided just to try and brazen it out. “Owen, look-”

One of his brows winged up. “You think I don't know? You think I don't notice when you come down to the stables on some false errand-”

She did bristle at that. “I'm the Operations Manager! I have no false errands.”

“You have ones you can delegate, though,” Owen insisted. “And for some reason or other, you haven't chosen to delegate me.” He paused for effect. “ _ Have you _ . You always come yourself. Never Vic or one of your area managers.”

It wasn't a question. His gaze held hers. No more words left his mouth – that mouth that made her think of dirty things that could keep them occupied for hours, just like last night – but she knew he was silently asking for permission.

But she hesitated, her heart beating in her throat.

He waited.

And it was the silent waiting that did her in, that made her cave. He could have taken what he wanted, but instead, he gave her the lead.

“Yes,” she said simply, to the question he’d asked without words.

The tree bark provided support for her as he ravaged her lips, kissing her furiously, passion and anger all rolled up between them, suddenly unleashed.

For a second she worried about the future. But she tossed that aside. They’d crossed  _ all  _ the lines last night. There was nothing left but her stupid pride - and his bull-headedness.

And what if someone saw them? 

What if one of the caretaking staff decided to do a last minute sweep of the lake? 

What if one of the dog-walkers deviated from their usual route. 

What if-

Then Owen pushed her fully up against the tree to begin devouring her neck, and every one of her sensible thoughts flew out of her head.


End file.
